


Queen in Play

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys actually in character for once, Dany abandons the North, F/M, Gen, Greyjoy hijinks, I am going to satirize the shit out of this dumb show and its characters because fuck it, Imperialist Dragon Barbie, Jon spills his guts metaphorically, Jonerys shippers do not read, Love Polygon, Love Triangle, OMC - Freeform, Pining, Queen in the North, Unbeta'd, as the hypocritical pyromaniac shit lizard she actually is, backstabbing, fancast pic in first chapter for OMC, post Jonerys, post-show-canon, pussy power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-01-18 21:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 61,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12396309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Upon learning of Cersei Lannister's betrayal, Daenerys Targaryen departs from the North. So Sansa goes to work.





	1. Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Janina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janina/gifts).



> Finally found a way to mold all my post-season-7 ideas together. Thanks to Janina for help with this!
> 
> Buckle in, people, because shit gets crazy in this one.

Jon:

His clothes are soaked from the snow. He stood in it, in the middle of the field, well after she’d flown off. He just stood, while her armies marched southward around him, following their queen. He watched them all leave, watched them as they disappeared from view. 

Arya came out to fetch him, yanking at his arm towards the castle. “You need to get out of those wet things and get a hot bath at once. She’ll be furious with you, you know.”

“She should be,” Jon replied to his little sister (still, forever his little sister, no matter his true origins), “Everyone should hate me.”

“Plenty do, I promise,” Arya snapped, “But I meant she’d be furious with you for standing out in the cold like this. She’ll tan your hide for risking a fever.”

Jon probably shouldn’t care. After all, they are probably all doomed now, and he’s botched everything. But a small part of him, deep in his gut, warms at this observation. Arya is right. There is someone who cares for him enough to probably box his ears for risking his health. 

And it’s the person who has more reason to be angry with him than anyone.

When they near the Keep, Arya sighs. “She’s been asking for you for hours. So change and bathe quickly.”

“No, I’ll see her first,” Jon insists. Honestly, facing Sansa is the thing he fears most right now. But that’s all the more reason to charge right in and get it over with. If he doesn’t force himself to do it now, he may not be able to handle it later.

Arya shrugs. “Fine, but be prepared for a lashing when she sees you in this state.”

Jon’s not unfamiliar with Sansa’s lashings. When he returned to Winterfell with Daenerys, she’d railed against him for relinquishing the throne, for not consulting her on the decision beforehand, for not sending her word that Viserion had fallen to an enemy that builds his army from corpses he re-animates, for barely communicating with her during his absence while she ran his country for him,  for pursuing a ceasefire with Cersei and risking his life for it, for personally attending the parlay there. For putting her in the tenuous position of having to explain and defend his actions to the horrified vassals who named him king and walk the line of preserving unity in the North and rebuffing petitions to crown herself. 

And, yes, she has even more grievances with him now. Because he did it all for nothing.

He trudges up the staircases and down the halls. He knocks on her door without thinking. Cecily, her chief maid, opens it at once. The middle-aged woman’s eyes narrow upon seeing him, as have the eyes of more and more Northerners since his return. 

Jon steps in to find a steaming tub of water sitting in the middle of the room, a stand holding Sansa’s various soaps and oils beside it. Sansa sits by the fire, stitching a wool tunic likely meant for a soldier, but dressed in a surprisingly rich plum velvet --- she is rarely in finery these days. She looks up at him and scowls. 

“Do you want a fever?” She cries, “Do you want to put yourself out of commission in our hour of greatest need?”

Sansa wields her words like Ygritte did her arrow: perfectly aimed and brutal. The reminder of his responsibility makes him glance at his feet. She’s right. How is he supposed to protect anyone if he’s bedridden?

But he’s not entirely surprised to see the tub here. Nor is Sansa surprised that he’d arrive like this, since she’s obviously planned for it. There’s even a set of clothes on the bed --- a tunic and trousers, though the tunic is a vibrant teal that he would never wear. Something new she’d made, probably. Not as appealing to him as the other things she’s made, but he’ll wear it as proudly as the cloak or his Stark doublets. Especially if she likes him like that.

Guiltily, Jon removes his cloak and gloves, kicks off his boots, and starts unlacing his doublet. Cecily takes each garment from him one by one. Sansa looks back at her sewing before his smallclothes come off.

The hot water is a shockwave, coursing through every nerve, and downright painful. But he sinks in regardless. It’s not the most unpleasant thing right now. No, that’s Sansa’s eerie silence. It’s like standing in front of Drogon’s snout; he keeps waiting for the fire to erupt from her mouth.

She’s clearly furious. Jon watches her from the tub. 

Usually, when she’s sewing, it looks like her hands are engaged in a lively dance with the needle and thread. It’s all effortless speed and grace. Her instincts for her textile work is such that she rarely ever even has to look down at what she’s doing. She’s often stitching socks or tunics or doublets or such for soldiers while completing other tasks: reading reports, holding discussions, receiving petitions. Oftentimes during court or council meetings she’s stitching beneath the table.

Now, though, her eyes are determinedly fixed upon her simple work. She’s likely made a thousand tunics by now. And her hands don’t dance so much as stab at the fabric, much the way Arya used to back when she was forced to sew. Like everyone, Sansa is exhausted, with dark circles around her eyes and near-colorless skin. She clenches her teeth.

Jon finally decides to speak up. “I’m so sorry, Sansa.”

“What has she left us, aside from emptied larders, an ice dragon, and broken promises?” Sansa snaps.

“Four thousand men,” Jon replies, wincing. It’s not nothing. Four thousand men is about a fifth of what the North commands. But they’re fighting White Walkers. And an ice dragon. Daenerys has taken both of her remaining dragons south.

All after Sansa’s household spent weeks healing an injured Rhaegal, too. An injury that was Daenerys’s fault.

When the Dragon Queen and her court landed at White Harbor, they received a letter from the Lady of Winterfell reporting the recent devastation by the enemy, including the Ice Dragon. She made a request of the queen to not let her children fly within five miles of any castle, town, holdfast, or other major population center, warning that it might cause panic and misunderstandings. Sansa reported that defensive measures were being developed and implemented at many castles, specifically designed to repel the Night’s King’s new steed, and said she didn’t want an “incident” during Daenerys’s journey to Winterfell.

The Mother of Dragons took this as an affront: as Sansa blaming her and condescending to her and trying to issue orders. So she ignored the request and let the dragons fly as they pleased.

When they neared Castle Cerwyn, Sansa’s warnings came true. Lord Cerwyn and his men spotted Rhaegal, panicked, and used their new, anti-dragon defensive weapons. Ballistas with dragonglass-tipped spears were fired from every tower, one of which pierced Rhaegal’s wing and sent the dragon plummeting. An immense cart, pulled by Drogon, had to be constructed to bring the wounded dragon to Winterfell. Maesters and gamekeepers spent weeks healing the beast, which took a lot of time and resources.

And almost immediately after Rhaegal fully recovers, Daenerys grabs him, Drogon, and most of her armies to fly south and lay siege to the Red Keep.

Jon wants to blame Jaime Lannister for provoking this, but knows he cannot. The Kingslayer arrived at Winterfell, reporting the plan set by Cersei and Euron Greyjoy to double-cross them, leave them to be ravaged by the White Walkers, then pick off whatever remained with the Golden Company. Crucial, pertinent information, of course, and Ser Jaime was brave to bring it to them. 

The Starks already knew, thanks to Bran’s visions. Jon asked them to keep it a secret, fearing Daenerys would take off once she learned of this. Then the Kingslayer arrived and announced it to the whole court, including Daenerys… who promptly made the decision Jon feared most.

Jon left home and sailed for Dragonstone at Daenerys’s request. He bent the knee to Daenerys. He ventured North of the Wall to help her gain her bloody ceasefire, he appeared at that bloody parlay and swore himself to her before witnesses. He gave up his kingdom, risked his life, alienated his people, and gave himself to her. She promised him, swore to him, that she’d save the North. That she understood and would face this enemy. That she’d come North as a savior, not a conqueror. 

Jon thought, hoped that giving himself to the Dragon Queen might solidify her commitment. Daenerys started showing signs of attraction to him soon after his arrival. She approached him, told him personal things, watched him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Jon often caught her at it, and when he did, she’d blush slightly and look away. She kept insisting he bend the knee, no matter what he told her. But even when she threatened to leave thousands to die and accused him of pride, she’d look into his eyes soulfully. 

When Jon woke aboard the ship, his first thought upon seeing her was that she finally understood, that the loss of her “child” might move her. It took him a couple of seconds to realize he was on a ship at all. Part of him thought for a moment that they were still at Eastwatch, that Daenerys had chosen to stay on the front lines after seeing this enemy. Even when he realized they were sailing, he still held out hope. At once, he told her he was sorry, hoping… hoping…

Hoping that she’d tell him that the ship was headed for White Harbor, not King’s Landing. That she was sending delegates to Cersei with the caught wight to negotiate, but that she, her army, and remaining dragons would be heading for Winterfell and the Wall to face the enemy at once.

But no. That’s not what she told him. She said she’d fight, but there was no talk of skipping the parlay. Jon, hoping he might convince her, called her by a nickname he’d thought up, hoping to appeal to her emotions. The way she looked at him, the way she took his hand, perhaps…

But before he could broach the subject, she rejected the name, and he knew. No, she was not going to put the White Walkers before her ambitions. 

One last vestige of hope came when she asked him, “What about your people?” after he called her his queen. Jon’s heart rose for a moment, surprised that she remembered that at all. But he still tested her, giving her the weakest, most obvious, and most flattering reply he could think of. That all his people, historically oppressed and brutalized by the Iron Throne, would just need to see how wonderful she so obviously is.

That was all she needed to hear, and thus, his last spot of hope for her was done. There were no more appeals to be made. No, the oncoming destruction of the entire continent, seeing the enemies up close firsthand, and even the loss of one of her “children” wasn’t enough. If he wanted Daenerys Targaryen to help him, he had to tell her everything she wanted to hear, give her everything she wanted from him. 

Including his body.

He knew that the public declaration of allegiance would sway her further, convince her of his affections for her. It might have seemed stupid, but honestly, Jon couldn’t care less about an alliance with Cersei. Daenerys had wasted most of the Lannister forces and though that side had put up a great fight, that great fight really only lasted until Daenerys finally brought the dragons out. Jon was at the parlay to gain Daenerys, not the people who killed his father and brother.

He went even further, suggesting to her that she wasn’t barren after all. Jon isn’t sure how valid his observation was. Sure, the witch who told Daenerys this couldn’t be trusted, but she had cast blood magic on Daenerys’s womb. Jon initially thought that he was likely right about the woman being a liar until Daenerys told him about Daario. After Drogo, she spent two years bedding a healthy man, and nothing happened. It wasn’t because of Moon Tea, either. Daenerys figured that she didn’t need it. No precautions were taken.

Every time Daenerys’s blood arrived after he and the Dragon Queen began their affair, he grew more doubtful.

Bran’s revelation made him ever more queasy about bedding her, of course. But he continued. Upon learning the truth, Jon never once doubted that he’d be keeping it a secret from Daenerys. He knows better. She’d accuse him and the Starks of purposely harboring a pretender to the throne. Jon is petrified of her. Learning of her roasting Randyll and Dickon Tarly hardly helped either.

But he forced himself, every night, to visit her chambers. As much as it disgusted him to couple with his aunt, he felt more compelled than ever to bind her to him. Especially since he seemed to be developing a bond with her dragons, which would sooner or later draw suspicion. Getting her with child could potentially rectify it all. Giving her the heir she desperately needs, making their connection eternal.

He made it clear to her that he wanted to conceive a child with her. He offered to marry her, though she rebuffed this, saying she wished to wait until things were more secure. Basically, it was an unspoken agreement that if and when she conceived, they’d wed. So Jon shed his clothing every night and pumped away, making sure to spill within her completely, taking her as many times a night as he could muster.

Daenerys did not conceive, despite Jon’s efforts. Just as she never conceived with her last lover. And as the months passed, Jon began to fear that the witch was telling Daenerys the truth.

He’s kept at it, though. Because he wanted to keep her here, keep her armies and dragons here. Make sure she stayed to fight the enemy. So he kept secrets, warmed her bed, appeased her, and stomached the glares from his countrymen.

Part of him hoped that when Jaime Lannister told everyone of Cersei’s treachery that maybe, just maybe, he’d bound Daenerys to him enough to make her stay regardless. That he could keep her support. Change her and her priorities. It’s the justification he’s given to pretty much everyone, including his family. They need the Dragon Queen and her army, and anything and everything that can be done to get her here, fighting for them, was necessary.

Well, he’s given Daenerys everything he can possibly give. He’s given her his allegiance, his service, his kingdom, his sword, his body… And she’s left regardless.

He gave up the North’s independence, sworn their forces to a foreigner’s cause, and collaborated in a scheme that created the Ice Dragon currently destroying settlements everywhere. His people are suffering and even worse off than they were before, and all without even the pride of being part of a free, sovereign realm. All for some obsidian, four thousand men, and an ally that abandons them the moment things become inconvenient.

“How many Dothraki riders?” Sansa asks.

Jon cringes. “Two hundred.”

“So enough to be nigh-intolerable to accommodate, but not enough to actually be effective. And the Unsullied?”

“A thousand. The rest are forces she gathered from Westeros and Dragon’s Bay.”

“So mostly inferior fighters who only fight under threat of dragon fire, now with thousands of miles between themselves and the dragon fire.”

Jon swallows. “Yes.”

“I see.” 

Cecily suddenly comes up behind him, assaulting him with a lathered up rag. He nearly jumps out of the water from shock. Annoyed, he yanks the rag from her and scowls. “I can take care of it myself, thanks.”

The servant rolls her eyes and leaves the chambers with his wet clothes.

Sansa looks up at Jon, lips pursed. “It’s a pity she hasn’t conceived. If she had, we might have convinced her to remain here at least until the child was born.”

“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Jon grumbles. He sets the cloth aside and looks into Sansa’s blue eyes. “Aren’t you angry?”

“Oh, absolutely livid,” answers the Lady of Winterfell, “But what will it do to carry on? Last time I screamed at you, it didn’t change the fact that you’d sworn us to the Mad King’s daughter, a murderous, power-mad war criminal. Shouting now won’t change the fact that she’s a deserter and a traitor as well.”

She stops stitching and takes a deep breath. “Jon, you realize what this means, don’t you? I’ve been refusing audiences with every lord in the North all evening. They all want the same thing.”

“My head on a pike?”

“Not just that.”

Jon knows what she means. They want the same thing they’ve wanted for over a year now. The thing more and more of them have been asking for since Jon left for Dragonstone. 

It doesn’t bother him.

Odd, perhaps, but then, was he ever really comfortable being king? He not only felt more weight on his shoulders than ever before, but he felt like a thief, a fraud. Taking Robb’s crown, taking the credit for the battle Sansa won. Taking the North, the rightful domain of Catelyn Stark’s children. Sometimes, at night, Jon could swear he heard Catelyn’s ghost whispering in his ear.  _ Bastard. Usurper.  _ And Sansa was the one who deserved it. She’d won Winterfell back, she was the one who wanted to go to war in the first place. Jon wanted to grab her and run, abandon everything. She was willing to march back to the place where she’d been raped and tortured for months to save their home from the Boltons. She didn’t even blink at confronting her tormenter again. She was the one with the connections to the Vale and Trident. The one who knew politics. But Jon was handed the crown and praised for everything. Nothing allowed him to forget that. It only saved to make his already-confused feelings towards her to be further twisted. Sansa was a walking, talking vortex of his guilt. Which made it that much harder to talk to her, which caused him to mistreat her, which only served to add to his guilt. The only time he felt sure he was doing the right thing as king was when he granted control of the North to her.

And, gods, how she’s triumphed. The fact that she was the eldest, trueborn, guaranteed-living child of Eddard Stark wasn’t enough to make her queen in the eyes of the lords. The fact that it was her who actually won the battle wasn’t enough to earn their respect. Even the counsel she offered, which the majority of their vassals supported and admired, didn’t do it (though it likely laid the groundwork). But over the past year, she’s practically made a god of herself in their eyes. 

Little Lyanna Mormont, who once taunted Sansa about being a “Bolton, or a Lannister”, who started the cry for Jon to be king, now not only curtseys every time the Lady of Winterfell enters her presence (even dismounting from her saddle in the courtyard if Lady Stark appeared), but she harshly reprimands anyone who fails to do the same. Lord Glover was among the first to openly petition that Sansa seize the throne from Jon. Lord Manderly built a trio of transport vessels in White Harbor dubbed the ‘Sansa Stark’’, ‘Winterfell’s Daughter’, and ‘The Red Wolf.’ When Sansa enters the Great Hall, the only person who stays seated is Bran. No one rises for Jon or Daenerys. Lord Cerwyn and many of the other young lords are besotted with her. Even Lady Karstark and Lord Umber, the very people Sansa wanted to depose, seem to worship her. Both had their homes destroyed by the Ice Dragon, and they and their people have been sheltered at Winterfell since. Tormund and the other Free Folk call her Lady Luck for her fire-kissed hair.

It’s an open secret that Lord Royce and several of the Trident lords who came North after retaking their lands from the exterminated House Frey had formed a faction specifically designed to crown her. Every lord and lady of significance is somehow involved.

The people flock to her, cheer her when she rides out. So many of them are now housed in tents surrounding Winterfell thanks to the enemy, but they know who made sure they have those tents. Using Bran’s abilities, Sansa’s evacuated numerous settlements prior to a siege by the Night’s King. She personally rides through the camps, speaks to people, and inspects their conditions daily. She’s sought out occupations and apprenticeships for many refugees and their children, and strong-armed lords into sheltering people.

She’s managed to feed, shelter, arm, and protect so many. Even Arya, who never has a good word for her sister, follows her lead, albeit begrudgingly and with many sarcastic comments.

Jon sees the properly drilled, properly armed units, the orderly ration lines, the surprisingly peaceful refugee camps, the new defenses, and knows he could not have done what she’s done.

His panic over Daenerys’s departure and nerves over her reaction have kept him from considering this yet, but she’s right to bring it up. And he’s glad she has.

During court tomorrow, Sansa will no longer deny their petitions. The last of their vassals’ patience has worn away. There’s only one way to placate them now, keep their allegiance, keep the North united, and prevent a power vacuum. These people are done pretending to follow the Dragon Queen. They will demand that their true queen lead them. 

At long last, Sansa will receive the honor she’s deserved. And he will no longer be a usurper. 

“You’re smiling.”

Jon blinks and realizes that she’s right. He is smiling. “I’ve found something to smile about in all this,” he tells her, “And I’m grateful for that,  _ Your Grace.” _

He wishes that he hadn’t bent the knee to Daenerys. Not to be king. But so he would have a chance of serving a queen he truly believes in. 

His response seems to stun her. She’s silent for a few seconds, then speaks, “So… you’re not angry? You don’t feel betrayed?”

“I never should have accepted the crown,” he replies mournfully, “It always should have been yours. I’ve felt for so long that I’ve betrayed you.”

“You did what was asked of you.”

“Instead of what was needed of me,” he argues, “What I needed to do was speak on your behalf. We’d be in far less of a mess if I had. I am good at getting people to follow me, but I always fail at earning and keeping that faith. It’s the Wall all over again.”

“You did what you thought was right.”

“Indeed! I definitely did what  _ I  _ thought was right!” He says this with mock-enthusiasm, “And never considered that other people might have thoughts as worthwhile as my own. I was so wrapped up in my own heroism that I never thought to ask, never thought to reconsider, never thought to explain anything. I ignored or took for granted everyone that showed me respect and faith, repaid their belief with dismissal. I turned a deaf ear, more or less, to the voices of the very people who put me in power once I had it. I should have sent an emissary to Dragonstone and stayed in the North. I should have kept in contact with you, warned you about the dragon. I should have listened to you about Cersei and warned Daenerys. I shouldn’t have let Ramsay manipulate me. There’s only been one time I’ve done what you counseled me to do, and it made me a king. I ignored and avoided your counsel, and now I’m an aunt-fucking bastard loathed by those who once loved me.”

Jon shakes his head and sighs again. “Well, no more of that, at least. I won’t be in any position to rebuff what you say. When the Great Hall rings with cries of ‘Queen in the North!’, my voice shall be the loudest. I only wish I could be your subject.”

Sansa bites her lip. “You could be, you know. I know you swore an oath to Daenerys, but Brienne says you never physically bent the knee, and she has deserted you. She broke her promise to you. And you are still a Stark, regardless of your origins. Daenerys has broken faith, so it could be argued that you’re free to swear allegiance to whomever you wish.”

Jon’s heart rises, but his stomach plummets. “That would be too great a risk. The forces Daenerys has left behind will obey me as her Warden of the North. And it might provoke her to violence once she returns. Getting her to accept your ascension peacefully will already be a great struggle. I don’t want to stoke those flames further.”

Sansa nods. “I suppose you’re right. But the offer is an open one, Jon. Always.”

He wants to cry. “You’re better to me than I deserve.”

“No, you’re deserving. You’re still the man you were before. You’re still a hero, determined to do what’s right. You’ve still risked and suffered greatly for those who need you. You’re still kind and brave. Some stupidity and arrogance doesn’t change that.”

Before he knows it, he’s risen to his feet, still in the tub. He takes in her shining blue eyes, widened with shock, her silky auburn braid, her parted, full lips.

“I’m in love with you,” he declares before he can stop the words from escaping his mouth, “I have been since that day you stood before me in my chambers and told me that you’d take the North back with or without me.”

“Daenerys----”

“---Was a cynical mistake I made,” he insists, “To try and play the game, to keep her military, to try and get my mind off of you. But all I could think of was how you were everything she lied about being. You’re a thousand promises kept when others break them. You’re what I smile about through the winter winds. What I fight for when I want to give up. You’re what I literally lived for. I mean it. I was ready to run off and bask in the sun until the enemy arrived to kill me until you arrived. And when you told me you would not be going back to Ramsay alive, I went straight to Melisandre and told her not to bring me back if I fell. 

“I wanted our home back for you. I wanted Ramsay dead for you. I want to win this war for you. I have ever since that day. I’m so often agonized because I disappointed you, because I had no right to want you, that I was sick to do so. But even amidst all that, all of everything, really, you can make me smile. And what makes me smile most is the thought of your triumph and happiness. I’m not sure how someone like you exists in a world so shit, like you’re the inverse of everything around us, all the goodness that can balance out all the terrible everywhere else. The world is awash with people spilling oceans of blood and calling it justice and salvation. But you’re the one who truly protects everyone, without shedding a drop. You’re a warm embrace amidst a sea of cold, stabbing blades. Not just to me, to everyone lucky enough to know you. The others can have their dragons and wights and visions and prophecies and sorcery. I’ve been brought back from the dead, but you are the true miracle in my life.”

There are tears running down her cheeks, and she’s risen from her seat, clasping her hands. “Oh, Jon, that’s so beautiful. I-I- I don’t know what to say!”

“Say you’ll give me a chance?” He asks, finding hope again. He climbs out of the tub and hurries toward her, taking her hands in his. Their eyes meet. “Let me… Let me try, now that you know, to love you the way you deserve. To make you fall in love, truly, at last.”

“Jon, you… you don’t understand.” She backs away, and Jon remembers with a jolt of embarrassment that he’s naked. His hands fly to his crotch, and he goes red.

“I’m sorry, I should be in a more appropriate state for this.” He grabs a drying cloth and hurriedly fastens it around his waist. He grabs the tunic from the bed, but finds it rather large. Surprising, since Sansa’s always been good about estimating his measurements. But he shrugs it off and starts to pull the breeches on. “It’s not right for me to---”

“---That’s not it, Jon. You don’t understand because…” She glances at the floor, then up at him again. “I’m already in love.”

He’d been pulling his pants up, but when she says this, he drops the waistband, which sinks down around his knees. His heart pounds. His head swims. He grins.

“R-really? You’re not just saying that to make me happy?” It’s the sort of thing she’d do. 

Sansa furrows her brows. “Oh, gods, I shouldn’t have--- I don’t know how to tell you this. But it’s n---”

She’s cut off by a knock on the door.

Jon, inches from pure elation, bristles at the sudden interruption. “FUCK OFF!” He yells through the door to Cecily.

But all that does is make the person pound on the door rapidly. There’s a male voice. “Sansa?!”

One of those busy-body lords, probably wanting her to declare herself queen right now. Be the first to swear themselves to her. _ Well, she’ll be their queen, but they can wait until tomorrow morning.  _ Jon doesn’t mind being replaced. But he does mind being disturbed like this.

Sansa moves for the door, but Jon is closer and faster. If anything will send some vassal-to-be running, it will be the old king growling at him that he’ll have his queen in the morning. And Jon still knows how to frighten people away.

“Jon, do---”

He swings the door open before she finishes, ready with a glare for whatever old, portly...

...Young, slim, extremely tall, cherry-lipped, green-eyed, tan-skinned, chestnut-haired gentleman with a parcel under his arm..

Jon steps back, yanking his breeches upward. He’s seen this face before… some nephew of Lord Manderly’s who advised Sansa on ocean transport.

The other man gapes, but remembers to bow. “Forgive me, Lord Snow, I was---” But his green eyes fall on Jon’s oversized tunic, “Is th---”

“---WILLAM!” Sansa shouts. Both of them look at her. And she blushes. “I mean… Ser Willam, pardon. There’s some… new notice of the ships heading from the Gift, I’m guessing?” She glances at Jon. “I ordered Ser Willam to come to me as soon as he got word, regardless of the hour. These ships are filled with supplies we salvaged from the devastated areas.”

“Yes!” Willam says quickly, “We got a raven. The ships should be here within a week.”

“Wonderful to hear that, thank you, Ser Willam.”

Jon’s blood runs cold. _What's the parcel for, then?_ He looks back and forth between them, notices Sansa’s change in tone and the blood rushing to her cheeks. He notes how Ser Willam’s posture has become unnaturally straight. The shade of panic in their eyes. 

He considers his tunic and breeches, both much too long, as if made for a much taller man. And how the tunic is the same color as the one the knight has on beneath his doublet. 

The tub, Jon realizes, is much bigger than a normal bath. 

His insides shrivel up. Ser Willam bows again hurriedly and says something about departing.

“Stop.” Jon orders in a tone that cannot be questioned. Ser Willam does stop, horror dawning on his stupid, handsome face.

“Jon, I---”

“---He’s who you mean, isn’t he?” Jon says, cutting her off. “You are in love. With this one.”

Sansa closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

Jon feels like he’s out in the snow again. Cold. Desperate. Miserable. A bit disbelieving.

“H-How long?” He asks, mouth dry.

“A few moons,” she admits, wringing her hands.

“It’ll be five in a week,” adds her lover. Jon wants to strangle him.

“Willam has sailed on merchant and transport ships since he was a lad, and he’s captained his own for a couple years. On his travels he took an interest in new mechanical sorts of weaponry employed in places like Qohor. His uncle sent him here to advise me on planning the best naval routes and the castle’s defenses. And we just sort of...”

Jon fastens the breeches tightly, angrily. He can’t recall any time he’s felt this humiliated. People sometimes wonder why he is so soft-spoken. Here is why. Every time he gets verbose and opens his heart, disaster strikes in some form or another. This isn’t three arrows in his back, but right now he’d almost prefer that. At least three arrows in the back comes with bragging rights.

He looks at his rival. “I had a bath,” he says quickly, realizing how this must look.

The man points over his shoulder towards the tub filled with used water. “Yes, my lord, I can see that.”

Jon somehow goes even redder. Willam’s lip curls and Sansa glares at her lover. Even worse. She pities him. Pity can bite worse than scorn.

He tries to regain some ground by turning a critical eye upon the knight from White Harbor. He sees what Sansa sees in the young man. It’s not just handsomeness, or the “Ser” in front of his name --- his cousin has long outgrown the phase of those being the standards for her regard. No, he’s seen Manderly at work. He is, indeed, well traveled, boasting many stories, and Sansa’s always loved stories. He’s charismatic --- up until he entered this room, Jon liked Willam despite the twinges of jealousy he’d feel whenever the man was treated to one of Sansa’s smiles. Confident without being self-obsessed. The trick was, he spoke of places, of things, of legends, of other people, rarely himself. And he is generous to credit others. When he showed Jon the defensive tools he’d brought to Winterfell, he was quick to attribute these literal life-savers to the people back East who had invented and taught them to him. 

“I am a shipman at heart, Lord Snow,” he’d said, “I merely transport things, whether they be solid cargo or ideas.”

But he’s excited by new things, new places, and likes to create things. And Jon sees why Sansa is drawn to that. She was always a dreamer as a child, before the world forced her to live a succession of nightmares. And she is still, at heart, a creator. Jon sees the bits of dreams and imagination she still harbors when she gives one of her sewing projects a flourish. He sees it when he watches her go about running the castle: she likes to ask questions, and explore ideas. She approaches governance the way she used to approach fashion: eager for development, creativity, and all with a sharp perfectionism. And though she seems set on never leaving Winterfell again, her heart wanders a bit. It wants to explore.

Putting things in place, managing coin, commerce, and infrastructure is her passion now. So a man who has sailed his whole life in pursuit of those exact things? Yes, of course she enjoys the charming, humble, clever, creative merchant captain who currently devotes his life to protecting her home.

And he’s competent. One cannot argue with his results. The Night’s King has tried to attack Winterfell once, and has avoided it since.

He is a bit of the dashing archetype from her storybooks, Jon supposes, but the man has substance.

It would be so much easier if he were another Joffrey. But Sansa is too grown up and too clever for that. Winterfell, as the primary defensive base in the North, is flooded with men, many of them strong, high-born, and handsome. But she files them through to their respective units along with the old, wart-faced peasants. This is the man who has stolen her heart.

The King in the North is intimidated by this man. Not because of strength --- there is no doubt in Jon’s mind he could floor Ser Willam in three seconds. Not because of looks --- Jon’s been called pretty too many times by too many people for him to think this man is more handsome than him. Even the height difference doesn’t bother him so much. He’s fought with giants. No, this man is highly intelligent and cultured. And he didn’t even have the decency to be a stooped, socially crippled, spoiled greenboy while clever. His hands are ungloved, and Jon sees callouses that equal his own. This is a man with nothing to prove.

Still, even if Sansa isn’t Jon’s lover, she deserves protection, regardless of how angry these instincts of his make her. He marches up to Willam. 

“What makes you fit to be with my cousin, Manderly?”

Sansa groans, but Jon ignores her.

The knight smiles. “That’s more a question for her than me. I have not the foggiest idea. I am here by her will, my lord.”

“And what are your intentions?”

_ “Jon!” _

He continues to ignore Sansa. Ser Willam bites his lower lip.

“My intentions are to help my lady Sansa to achieve both safety for our land and personal happiness. If you are asking if I intend to marry her, well, that remains to be seen. Matrimony has done the lady no favors, and the last thing I wish to do is make her feel compelled to enter into it again. She does not need a husband right now, though if she decides that she wants one, I would be honored to fill that role. But until then…” He glances at Sansa and they share a wink.

His eyes zero in on the parcel under his arm. “And what is that, then?”

The couple exchange glances and Sansa sighs.

“One of Willam’s hobbies is art, and he’s painting me,” Sansa says briskly, “Satisfied? Enough of this nonsense now. If we’re all going to stand around and talk, why not attend to more important matters? Like planning to keep Winterfell defended now that our so-called Dragon Savior has left.”

Jon shakes his head. “I can’t… Not now. Forgive me. But then… You two have done quite well without me.”

He marches out of the chamber, baffled and miserable.  _ Just how much have I missed?! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's mancandy looks like this, btw:
> 
>  


	2. Proposals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Queen is formally crowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your comments thus far. We're heading right into the Euron thing in this chapter, but hopefully you'll be pleasantly surprised. There are also going to be some references to events between the season 7 finale and the beginning of this thing, but they'll be fleshed out more as the story goes on since I'm experimenting a bit with the time frames here. I hope you like big speeches, long letters, and gushing about Sansa's awesomeness!

Since the dawn broke, there’s been a low rumble from the collected whispers. Every living soul in Winterfell, from the peasant refugees encamped in the tents to the members of her council are discussing this. The men Daenerys left behind are smart enough to keep to themselves, at a distance. But still, Sansa sends Jon to corral them to one part of the camp just in case.

The dawn breaks, and of course court is called at once. It takes little time for the lords and ladies to assemble in the Great Hall, they all been waiting since they saw the dragons take to the air. 

Sansa gets little to no sleep. Though she realizes the outcome is all but assured, she’s on edge. She’s not sure how long it will take for word to reach the Dragon Queen of this development --- from what she’s gathered of Daenerys’s temperament, it will be a while. She was furious when she was informed of Cersei’s betrayal, and Sansa suspects the woman has been flying nonstop in her rage since she departed. Judging by the stricken stammer Tyrion Lannister adopted as he dutifully and reluctantly rode with Grey Worm and the armies southward, it may be weeks and weeks before Daenerys stays anywhere long enough to receive a raven or even soak in local gossip.

Still, one can never be too safe, so Sansa’s made sure the castle defenses are in peak condition, and that the men loyal to Daenerys are quartered on an area of the outer camps where they can do the least damage.

Sansa dispenses with breakfast, knowing she will not keep her food down anyways, merely taking her usual moon tea, though she and Willam never got around to making love this night. The confrontation with Jon spoiled the mood too thoroughly, so he spent as many hours as he could working on her portrait before his eyes lost their energy.

Her lover is certainly excited, almost giddy. But then, his family has been pushing for this almost since Jon left for Dragonstone. Lord Manderly nearly had a heart attack when gossip began about Jon and Daenerys’s tryst. His son and heir, Ser Wylis, spent three years in the Lannisters’ captivity following the Red Wedding, and the man was forced to betroth one of his granddaughters to a Frey and pay an absurd sum in addition to Lady Wylla’s dowry to get his son back. 

The Manderlys, fitting for their roots in the Reach, are essentially the Tyrells of the North. They are among the only families that worship the Seven (hence the knighthoods for most of the men), controlled the largest port and only major city in the North, and they operate much like their former liege lords. Lord Manderly was shrewd, calculating, and ambitious. Unlike many of his ilk in the South, however, he did have a certain code. For the most part, he was ruthless, but he did have one principle: undying loyalty to House Stark. All of his family did, and had for generations, since House Stark granted the family a home and a fiefdom following their exile from the Reach.

Sansa had doubted this when she first became regent, given his apparent lack of support when they attacked the Boltons… Until she learned of how Littlefinger managed to hide the Knights of the Vale and keep them maintained in Moat Cailin until the Battle of the Bastards without Ramsay even knowing they were there. Upon Baelish’s execution, Sansa went through all his papers and discovered a wealth of bribes that came directly from the White Harbor treasury, including a considerable sum offered to Ramsay in exchange for her late husband to cede command of Moat Cailin itself to the Manderlys right around the time the Knights of the Vale would have docked there.

Willam’s uncle serves as her Master of Whispers, and he’s been taking full advantage of his position. Sansa suspects that the Vale’s continued fealty to House Stark is linked to her richest vassal. Then there’s Willam’s arrival itself. All the Manderlys were clever and resourceful --- Lord Wyman did not like letting kin go to waste. Many of his male relatives were experienced sailors and ship captains or warriors. The women were all highly educated and, whether they ended up being strategically married off or sent to The Faith, it was rumored they were all spies for their House.

Willam is far from the only son of White Harbor to have traveled extensively, learned of innovative defensive techniques, and distinguish himself as a warrior. Indeed, he’s not the best ship captain, the best warrior, or the cleverest of his brothers, cousins, and uncles. But he is the youngest, best looking, and most charming. And the fact that he was the one his uncle sent to serve as Sansa’s personal defense coordinator has not escaped her notice. Nor has his seemingly uncanny knowledge of her interests. 

For this reason, Sansa tried her hardest not to fall for him. To the point where she, at the end of her rope, finally confronted him about the full nature of his presence at her court. He knew better than to lie to her.

“That doesn’t mean I adore you any less, My Lady.” He’d said, leaning against one of the ballistas and smirking at her. “Nor do I need to be dishonest with you. I realized that you’d figure it out almost as soon as I met you. But I continue to try and woo you because I want you, plain and simple. To be honest, it’s a bit of a relief.”

Uncle Wyman may be itching to make a match, but Sansa is fairly certain at this point that Willam’s love for her is genuine, given certain… collaborations… between them. 

When day breaks, he suggests she don the plum velvet she’s been wearing for her portrait, but she shakes her head. “Any especially fine clothing will be indecent, presumptuous, expectant. When I enter court, I have to seem panicked and concerned and dour, not like I’m about to be crowned.”

Willam rolls his eyes. “Sansa, everyone knows what the outcome of this morning will be. And everyone knows that everyone else knows, and that includes you.”

“Yes, but a lack of humility will send the wrong message. Like I’ve just been waiting all this time to dress up and such. I will look as I usually do at court.”

He gets out of bed and starts tugging on his clothes. “As you wish. I need to get back to my rooms to change, though, since your cousin walked off in my things last night.”

Sansa goes red. “That was so dreadful.”

“Well, he needed to know sooner or later.” Willam leans over and gives her a peck on the cheek, then grins. “In a few hours, you’ll be Queen of half of Westeros.”

“Don’t forget,” she says, trying not to think on that too hard. It made her feel guilty, but excited, and then a little guiltier for the excitement, “Almost as soon as we’re done, we have to meet with Bran and Arya back here. There’s not much time we can waste.” She glances over at the easel near the fireplace and the small canvas it holds. “Do you think it will be done soon? I was hoping to dispatch the letter by nightfall, and possibly send---”

“It will take until morning to finish, be primed, and dry properly,” Willam says, “But if you want to send the letter first, we can always send the portrait as a separate parcel.”

Sansa considers this. The conditions of this particular delivery are already so unusual and possibly dangerous, she’s not sure she wants to risk it. “I can’t decide. Maybe after court?”

He nods, and kisses her again before yanking his doublet over his head and hurrying out. Cecily enters as he departs and begins helping Sansa dress.

A short time later, she’s approaching the back entrance to the Great Hall. The rumbling of fraught conversation between the Northern vassals rumbles from beyond the door and the world seems to shake with it.

Jon, Bran, and Arya wait for her in the small hallway, and Sansa throat nearly closes up when she sees them. Arya stares at a tapestry like she’s about to attack it. Bran wears his usual, maddeningly stoic expression. Jon looks miserably at his feet. But he walks towards her, kisses her hand, and tries to smile. 

“Congratulations, Your Grace. It is my sole consolation in all this that I get to see you crowned at last.”

Sansa wonders who that’s meant for more: her or Arya. Her sister once accused her of wanting to depose Jon, even threatening to blackmail her over it. But since then, things have changed considerably. Littlefinger’s death sated a number of Arya’s suspicions, and the sisters found some measure of peace there that continued to develop. There were still difficulties --- after learning from Arya’s old traveling companion Gendry that her sister spent moons as Tywin Lannister’s cupbearer, forsaking three chances to kill him, she refused to speak to her sister for weeks, sickened by her sister’s hypocrisy, which was only exacerbated when Bran reminded them both that Father himself had stated the very same things that Sansa had written in her so-called “traitorous” letter. Sansa eventually managed to speak to her sister again, but gave her an assignment evacuating one of the areas targeted for attack by the wights. She ordered Arya to spend no more than three days at the castle salvaging what they could from the stores before fleeing with everyone, but Arya, unsatisfied with her haul, defied those commands to stay an extra half day ---- causing the enemy to catch up with part of the procession and destroy half the goods they’d gathered. About a dozen lives and several moons worth of food storage and supplies were lost.

Ironically, it was the arrival of the dragon court that proved a catalyst for true peace between the two. Even Jon was furious with Arya upon hearing of this, and it was his disappointment in her that made the younger Stark sister realize the depth of her errors. There’d been a tearful reconciliation.

And there was also Daenerys and her court, whom neither sister liked. About a week after the Dragon Queen’s arrival, Arya departed from a banquet with Sansa and murmured, “I can’t believe I ever thought  _ you  _ haughty. Seven Hells, maybe we should start serving that woman the contents of her privy, since she obviously finds even her waste so glorious. It probably smells better to her than anything we can serve, and it will likely suit her pallet better as well. Shit of the Dragon! I can’t believe Jon swore us to her.”

Arya was far from the only one who felt this way. As wondrous as Daenerys thought her dragons, to the majority of the people in Winterfell --- the refugees, lords --- they were just the brothers of the monster that destroyed and continues to destroy their homes. There were incidents with Daenerys’s Dothraki riders as well, who acted like brutes. The costs of accommodating everyone, not to mention treating Rhaegal’s injuries, were a great burden. 

The Dragon Queen seemed to notice her lack of popularity among the Northmen. The iciness of both her reception and the weather led her to hide herself in her chambers as much as possible, and, detecting a lack of subordination from the nobility, she liked throwing her weight around council meetings and even sessions of court. Upon her introduction to the leaders of the region, she called for them all to kneel to her as their queen, prompting Tormund Giantsbane (who not only barely escaped the destruction of the Wall, but also generally resented Daenerys for sending so few men with Jon when he arrived at Eastwatch to get her a wight), shouted out, “WE DO NOT KNEEL!” Everyone cheered at this, causing Daenerys to turn puce and rise from her seat in anger, only to be pulled back and chastened by Jon and Tyrion before she could say anything. After that she conducted most of her business with the court through gritted teeth.

She also clung to Jon, which created a particular personal conflict between her and Arya. The Dragon Queen demanded nearly every moment of his time, and was suspicious and resentful of the time and affection he devoted to his family, particularly his beloved baby sister, whom he hadn’t seen in years. Despite the purely sibling bond there, according to Arya, it was almost like Daenerys saw the younger Stark sister as a rival. 

Arya loathes Daenerys, and, on a few levels, resents Jon for putting the North in this position. And, begrudgingly, she’s come to respect and follow Sansa’s leadership. Since her botched evacuation, she’s followed every order Sansa’s given her precisely. 

Still, no matter what stupid things their half-brother-turned-cousin does, Jon is Jon. And Arya is still in pain to think of him being supplanted, regardless of how supportive he is, or how justified it is. There’s a lot to swallow for Arya to not only observe but support her prissy, older sister and rival pushing her favorite brother from power and becoming sovereign over their country. 

Sansa honestly wonders who Arya resents more in this: Sansa, for taking the crown, or Jon, for creating a situation where such an act is the only thing that makes sense. But she needs her sister's support. In this and... well... other things. So far, she has it.

Arya stares at the tapestry some more as Bran offers his own oddly serene congratulations, but she surprises them all when their brother finishes by pulling Sansa into quick, yet tight embrace.

Once she releases her stunned sister, she unsheathes Needle and drops to her knee, swearing an oath of fealty.

Sansa bursts into tears and is barely able to get the liege’s oaths out over her sobs. Her sister scowls, rises, and tells her to stop blubbering. “No one is going to want to follow a wailing milksop.”

This actually makes her laugh a little as she fumbles with a handkerchief. They give her a minute or two to pull herself together before Jon offers his arm. “Shall we?”

The Great Hall falls silent as the Starks enter. Jon does not sit, he stands behind his chair, folds his hands, and announces the obvious to everyone assembled. Daenerys is gone South to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister once and for all. She’s taken her dragons and all but four thousand of her men with her. 

There is cursing and outcry. Much of it directed at Jon, for handing over the crown they’d given him to a deserter, a foreign reptile, a tyrant, the Mad King’s Daughter. The Ice Dragon is brought up, for the mission that created it was all for nothing. Tormund Giantsbane, who had been part of it, who watched most of his friends die at the Wall, who nearly died himself for, as he put it “A Southern tea party for two spoiled cunts”, is among the loudest. But he’s far from the only one. It’s bad enough that the whole effort was useless, or that it was so poorly supplied and handled in the first place, but now the woman doesn’t even have the decency to stick around to help handle the mess she created for her futile attempts at diplomacy. 

Many Northern Lords who had lost so much in the struggle for Northern independence “all foiled by our king seduced by some foreign whore!” Lord Glover noted, “History repeating itself!” Make it clear how foul this is to them. Many of them lost towns, homes, and family to the War of the Five Kings and Ironborn raids. Yet more lost the same to the Ice Dragon that had been created because Daenerys sent only Jon and a handful of men to go beyond the Wall and capture a wight from the Army of the Dead.

Alys Karstark and Ned Umber are homeless, despite Jon’s original decree that they’d not lose their seats. Both Last Hearth and Karhold were among the first to be evacuated prior to attack and, just as they would have been had Sansa gotten her way regarding their titles, they are now more or less wards of Winterfell. Jon’s mercy left them with less than they had before.

There are demands to see the letters he sent Sansa during his travels abroad, forcing Jon to admit what everyone already knows by now: that he only sent one. 

History repeats itself with Lady Mormont, who lets loose a cry that would make a banshee blush. Such is the power of this shriek that it quiets the Hall.

She glares daggers at Jon. “The North should have learned its lesson with the last king who failed us, and known no queens. I was a stupid child for believing you’d be any different. At least the last king who knelt did so alongside the very men and women who crowned him. A monarch is supposed to protect and rule his people, stay here, as we all begged you, lead them through their worst struggles, and serve the wills of his people. We defied tradition and supplanted the rightful heir with our trust. You took the honor and authority, made demands, left almost immediately, stayed silent as we faced the winter, and threw away the liberties we asked you to stand for like a dirty handkerchief while others kept us safe and strong. I say no more. Crowns are for leaders, for people prepared to govern, not unprepared soldiers. Those were our last two kings. So I say the North should be done with kings for now. And it shall no longer appease entitled rich girls who force service with fire and reptiles, who assumes dominance over countless lives because she came from the balls of a maniac. Who leaves the people she wishes to rule to suffer and put out her fires while she chases the shiniest title.”

Manderly stands then. “I agree with the young lady. We need a leader who remains with us, to keep peace within our ranks, rescue our smallfolk, conserve our grain, arm our soldiers. Who was willing to march right back towards the halls in which she was raped to seize her suffering land back by a sadistic tyrant the moment she escaped. Who has faced the enemy and forced it back. Who has thrived and blossomed through the worst winds and ice, like a Winter Rose. Who has taken countless innocents into her home to protect and feed. Who has, without once lifting a blade herself, managed to do what no one since Azor Ahai has done and force the Night’s King into retreat.”

Lord Royce stands. “Who, in the very worst circumstances imaginable, destroyed one of the most cunning and dangerous criminal lords in Westeros, keep thousands fed and sheltered, and unite two kingdoms that were historically at odds. Who humbly accepted her half-brother taking credit for her victories and usurping her claim for the good of her people. Who has repeatedly resisted attempts by others to crown her out of family loyalty, despite her constant, superior governance. Who has  _ served,  _ not  _ demanded.” _

“A child of our own lands,” Lord Glover calls out, “Who knows our enemies, knows our people, knows the world. Who has endured cruelty, doubt, and insults even from those who should have shown her love, and maintains her devotion to her nation regardless. Who was turned away at Northern doors, but has opened her home and mercy to those who once slighted her.”

Sansa glances about the room. These are lines.  _ They’ve rehearsed this. They’ve probably been preparing bits of this for months and months.   _

“The one who inspires not just the North, but the knights of the Vale to fight for her.” Lord Royce adds.

Even  _ Tormund  _ gets to his feet. “And has earned the respect of the Free Folk --- what’s left of them anyways.  _ That’s  _ a leader we can follow.”

Nervously, Sansa glances at Jon, whose eyes are shut. He looks like he’s being struck. Jon knew this would come, though, granted, Sansa never expected everyone to get so explicit and theatrical. 

“Aye, so I think we’re agreed,” Lady Mormont says, looking around, “We know no king. And we know no queen… but a queen who leads and serves. A queen in the North whose name is Stark!”

“The Queen in the North! The Winter Rose!” Lord Manderly, clearly fond of nicknames, cries. The hall thunders with cries of approval, followed closely by the chant of “THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!”

Jon goes to pull out her chair for her as she rises to accept her new kingdom. Her heart races, and she wonders how long she should let them cry out for her. Time is scarce, after all. After about a minute, she holds up a hand for silence, then humbly accepts the fealty of the North, swearing the typical oaths of a liege to the crowd. 

“But what of the Vale?” She asks, looking to Lord Royce and his peers. “I have been named Queen in the North, but the Vale is not the North. It has a Lord Paramount of its own, my dear cousin Lord Robin Arryn. And after all he and his people have given me, I do not wish to repay you all by presuming sovereignty over you. You are of course welcome to be our allies and make my cousin a king, if you wish.”

She’s never said so, but one of the things about Jon’s reign that annoyed her (out of many), was the complete lack of acknowledgment the Vale got. Perhaps Jon feared reminding his people that it was their knights --- led by Sansa --- who had actually taken back the North, defeated the Boltons, and avenged the Red Wedding. But they were a powerful and important faction of good people who had done so much and gotten no recognition in return. She does not intend to continue that policy.

That being said, she knows what the answer is. By all reports, now that he’s no longer spending his life practically tethered to the bosom of his overbearing, over-protective mother, Robin is improving himself at the Gates of the Moon. He’s still behind other boys his age in terms of strength, martial ability, and education, but his tutors report that he’s unexpectedly quick and is catching up at a surprising pace. Regardless, he was still supping at his mother’s breasts at twelve and is still rather sickly and very spoiled. It was quite a starting point. At fifteen, still too young to govern personally, he’s at the maturity of an eleven-year-old, and is still at a tender place where he requires sheltering, not responsibility. Not to mention, his vassals want to be here, where the true war is. Forming a whole new royal court is something they cannot afford to do now.

It’s the gesture that counts. An offer that Daenerys and Cersei would never make, to support and promote another monarch in their midsts. An offer of the very liberty the Northern monarchy should stand for, the thing Daenerys lies about honoring.

Two of the other Vale lords --- Hunter and Templeton, rise to flank Royce, who bows deeply.

“We are honored and touched by Your Grace’s concern and generosity, but as Lord Protector of the Vale, I can say, with the support of my peers, that we wish to join the North in following you. In the name of Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, I, Lord Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone and the Gates of the Moon, hereby pledge the fealty and loyalty of the Vale of Arryn and its people to you, Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North and the Vale.”

There are cheers. Sansa smiles and accepts the honor again.

It’s only after this that she allows herself one small, quick glance over to Willam, who sits across from his uncle, near the left wall. He smirks at her slyly, hands folded atop the table, twiddling his thumbs, and winks. Sansa averts her gaze before it becomes noticeable.

“If you’d all be seated,” she begins, and the room obliges, “Now that we have that sorted out---” she pauses to let the room chuckle, “--- I think we should attend to the actual governance. And, indeed, there is a major matter which I need to discuss with you. That is, the very reason for Queen Daenerys’s departure: the matter of the South. Not only the Dragon Queen, but Queen Cersei and King Euron.”

There are angry mutterings and some audible cursing. Sansa sighs.

“I know, but unfortunately, it must be addressed. Thankfully, we have measures in play here to handle major shifts in our numbers. Upon Daenerys’s departure, I began, as Lady of Winterfell, issuing orders about accommodating our new circumstances, including new quartering for the remaining Targaryen forces, redistribution of resources, and changes to the castle defenses. Temporarily, we are stable up here. But the South does need to be addressed. The fate of the Iron Throne, regardless of our rejection of it, affects us. The South still controls the majority of this continent’s population and grain. And Cersei Lannister remains an enemy. She and Euron Greyjoy specifically engineered their double-cross to strike her enemies at their most tired and vulnerable. Not only did she score unexpected victories over Daenerys, but she acquired a vital ally and control of the most plentiful regions of Westeros. She’s outsmarted Daenerys Targaryen multiple times, to the point where she was winning the war despite her odds. She’s not only acquired an immense fleet, but the backing of the Iron Bank, which intends to supply her with as many men and resources as it takes to defeat Daenerys and seize Westeros. Their means are practically limitless, and thus, so are Cersei’s. Daenerys is already down one dragon, and evacuated her forces and holdings in the South, giving Cersei time and opportunity to gain greater footholds there, and even now, Euron Greyjoy sails to deliver the Golden Company to fight for her.”

“So?” Young Lord Cerwyn shouts out, “What should we care for the kneelers?! Let the two bitches destroy each other if they’re so desperate. Cersei wants to wear us out? She’ll wear herself and Daenerys out instead! Too much to attack us, surely! With any luck, the Lannister woman will finish off the other two dragons ---- we’ve already broken in the green one for her --- just in time for those penny-counters from Braavos to be frightened off and the Greyjoys’ boats to sink!”

There are a few murmurs of agreement, but most of the lords and ladies seem to spot the flaws in this plan.

Barbrey Dustin, the Lady of Barrowton, rises and clears her throat. “Lord Cerwyn, you are ignoring the very realities Her Grace just mentioned. The majority of the food and supplies we’ll need to survive both this war and the winter come from the South. The majority of the very people our enemy seek to destroy live there. And the Iron Bank is unbelievably powerful. It will take a lot for them to give up on Cersei. They’re willing to invest their money in standing up to dragons, they will not give up easily. They make Cersei stronger. And the stronger she is, the longer she and Daenerys will fight. The longer they fight, the more devastation comes to Westeros. Men, women, children, castles, towns, crops, forests will burn. Corpses will pile up. And the longer the South is occupied with eating itself, the less support we have, the longer and harder our conflict with the true Enemy goes on. The weaker our odds get. The Night’s King may live off of death, but we do not. The stronger the efforts against the White Walkers are, the quicker we can defeat them, and we must defeat them as quickly as possible. It will not do to have two living dragons destroyed while our enemy still wields an ice one. Contrary to what those ‘two bitches’ believe, this isn’t about them, it’s about the millions whose fates are tied to these conflicts. The millions who will die of starvation because of destroyed harvests. The millions of living soldiers who will die fighting each other instead of defending this world from the true enemy."

 

"Aye," Tormund speaks up, "And while I believe we can resist Daenerys’s rule, but there are differences between her and the Night’s King. For one, she isn’t tied to the winter itself, she’s more vulnerable to it than us. For another, she doesn't build an army from the corpses of her enemies, building her numbers from the continuous and inevitable outcome of war. As fighting goes on, she gets weaker. The Night’s King is the opposite. We can hold our own against the Lizard Woman, but we can't defeat the Night’s King if the rest of the world destroys itself. We can't afford to ignore this. If we're gonna survive, things in the South must be settled, and we have to get much stronger, and quick.”

Sansa smiles at Lady Dustin and Tormund, grateful. There is a flood of agreement. 

She sighs. “Exactly. Which is why, in the wake of Daenerys’s absence, we have to seek out other options for support. And, perhaps, make some rather unpleasant arrangements. I have been awake all night, trying to come up with solutions, and I believe that I have found a rather effective one. However, I’m afraid most of you may find it rather… distasteful. But I promise you all that this plan will not only strengthen us considerably and help the Southern conflict come to a quick end, but will do so in a manner that preserves our independence. It will require sacrifice, and a great deal of faith on your part, but I truly believe in my heart of hearts that it is the best approach.”

She feels Jon’s eyes boring into her. He’s been in the chair next to her ever since she ordered everyone to sit, watching her. But now his looking is demanding, penetrating. As if to go, _“What have you not told me?”_

_ I might have last night,  _ she thinks indignantly,  _ if you’d not shuffled off like a bitter greenboy wearing his father's clothes _

“What is it that you propose, Queen Sansa?” Lord Forrester asks.

“For various reasons,” Sansa begins, “I cannot tell you the full extent of the scheme. But it involves making an alliance. One that will be rather unsavory, but more than worth it due to the benefits it shall yield, should I have your support in this. And I shall need your support in seeking out this… particular ally.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

_ To His Grace Euron of House Greyjoy, First of his Name, Iron King of the Iron Isles, Commander of the Iron Fleet, and Lord Reaper of Pyke from Her Grace Sansa ‘Winter Rose’ of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen of the Realms of the North and the Vale, Queen of Winter, Ruler of the First Men, Lady of Winterfell, the Dreadfort, and Harrenhal, Protector of the Realm, greeting: _

_ You are probably alarmed by the fact that this raven reached you out in the middle of the Western Valyrian Sea. I was able to reach you this way the same way I know that the night before you shall have received this letter, you had seven flagons of ale, took your dusky slave from Asshai from behind three times, and forced your nephew Theon to display his mutilated groin area to your crew. _

_ I have access to certain arts that I shall be happy to share with you, King Euron.  _

_ It is by these arts that I know you should change course immediately if you wish to live. I am aware of the gambit you and Cersei are playing, Your Grace. I am aware of the game you think you’re playing with her. I am aware that you are sailing with the Golden Company now to fight for Cersei, that you intend to marry her, father a child on her, and, once you’ve gotten the son you need, murder her and take over Westeros. _

_ It will not work, because the moment Cersei has secured control of the army you’re bringing her (and if you can be certain that Qyburn will manage this for her the moment you reach Blackwater Bay), she intends to murder you.  _

_ At this moment, Cersei Lannister carries the fourth child she’s conceived with her twin brother, Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer. Queen Cersei is forty-four. Even if she manages to bring this child to term, it shall be her last. She will never give you the child you need to seize control of Westeros. People will be watchful for bastards sired by her brother. No one will mistake a full Lannister child for yours like they did with Robert. _

_ You probably believe that these are all lies I am telling you to try and secure your allegiance for Queen Daenerys, who my cousin, King Jon Snow. bent the knee to. _

_ I am writing to inform you that the titles I listed in my greeting are no joke. Queen Daenerys learned of your gambit with Cersei as well and has abandoned the North. This is after losing one of her own dragons and essentially handing our enemy an ice dragon of his own which has ravaged many of my lands. My half-brother is in disgrace, and my furious vassals (devoted wholeheartedly to their independence) have declared me their queen in much the same way you came by your own crown. _

_ I want revenge upon Daenerys Targaryen for this, just as I want revenge upon Cersei Lannister. _

_ I now rule, by the word of my people, over half of Westeros. I am the one human being to successfully repel a siege by a dragon (the Ice Dragon), with minimal means and support. My people are fanatically loyal to me. I have moles in the camps of both of my rival queens, and, as I have already displayed, I have mystical gifts on my side which allow me to foresee anything I need from my enemies. _

_ I am also one-and-twenty, in the first throes of my prime, at the height of my best childbearing years, healthy, fertile, and I also happen to be even better looking than the portrait I have enclosed with this message. My carnal experience is limited to my odious late husband, so I am curious about discovering what may delight me in the bedchamber. Cersei Lannister, in her prime, may have been one of the most beautiful women in the world, but those days have passed. You have seen it. Even if she hadn’t had that golden hair hacked away, she is withered, bitter, and sagging. I would happily compare any average girl of my court to her in beauty, and what looks she still has will fade away completely within a few short years. I cannot even be sure that I have reached the heights of my own charms. Recently my breasts have grown again, for instance. My hair has turned a more striking shade of red and, now that I am free of the stress of captivity, my skin has grown more lustrous. _

_ Additionally I should warn you, King Euron, that you best not bother even considering a plot like the one you had in store for Cersei. I am not some spoiled, over-confident, delusional rich girl who managed to find a convenient cache of wildfire. I am not some entitled foreigner who was handed a trio of dragons. _

_ I have gone from having no more than a name and a pretty face to being the universally declared sovereign of half this continent in a third the time it has taken Daenerys Targaryen to take Dragonstone, all without any dragons. I have reduced some of the most dangerous men in Westeros to dust and dog dung (Petyr Baelish and Ramsay Bolton, respectively).  _

_ I command forces that were never made to be commanded and have resurrected powers that have not been seen for centuries. _

_ So, please be aware that this proposal I make to you is an invitation to fuck me, but not fuck with me.  _

_ I will marry you within a week of your arrival to my shores (if a Northern, godswood wedding is acceptable. I am not familiar with the customs of the Drowned God, nor are my people, and I imagine it will cause more inconvenience than it is worth to engineer an Ironborn ceremony befitting two monarchs, but I'm willing to be sensitive to your culture if you don't mind a delay) should you agree to my terms. But I am not to be used. Wed me and treat me well, and together we shall rule a vast empire and found a new dynasty that shall last generations. Try to double cross me and I will do to you what my late husband (who, I should mention, died when I fed him to his own hunting dogs) did to your nephew, and force you to eat the trimmings. _

_ We shall conspire to trap the Mother of Dragons once she has finished Cersei and use her beasts and forces for our use. This may require that we keep her alive to control them, but if so, you are more than welcome to keep her as a “Salt Wife” as long as you keep her in her place. You will give me control over the Golden Company and equal status among your own forces so we can defeat the army of the dead (who, my half-brother forgot to mention, can construct ships, so they are unfortunately a threat to you as well if they are not stopped soon). Then, with the Lannisters wiped out and the Targaryen forces under our command, Westeros (and perhaps more, depending on how well we manage the dragons) shall be ours for the taking. I’ll even let you be the one to actually sit the Iron Throne, if you wish (I’d rather make my own, far more comfortable, chair). _

_ I have another condition, of course: I happen to owe a debt to your nephew, and cannot suffer the obligation. So I must insist that you begin showing him and his sister Yara every comfort and courtesy and deliver them to me alive and healthy. They will be kept much as Theon was kept during his adolescence, as my “guests” and wards. They will never trouble you again. _

_ Forgive my sentimentality, King Euron, but I can’t justify this marriage to my vassals unless I am seen repaying my debts, and I owe your nephew a rather considerable one. _

_ Change course, King Euron. Your choices are a duplicitous hag carrying another man’s child, intent on murdering you, or a life of victory, conquest, and power with an actual contender for the most beautiful woman in the world. _

_ Choose wisely. _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Queen Sansa Stark the Winter Rose _


	3. Some News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The South receives letters, the North receives a groom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, just so you know, I'm looking for a beta for this and my other current WiP, Winter Rose, so let me know if you're interested!

Tyrion:

Not since the battle against the Tarlys has Tyrion felt as afraid as he does at this moment, in the council chamber at Dragonstone. Varys is afraid, his hand quivering as he holds the parchment, the stiff paper tapping against the table top. The meeting is scheduled to begin in an hour, and thankfully the two of them managed to intercept this message before it got into the queen’s hands.

Nobody likes giving Daenerys Targaryen bad news. Except for one person, the one person responsible for the latest batch of bad news. Varys’s skin is a faint shade of green that is only partially obscured by the dim light and his usual powders, and Tyrion can smell him sweating it off.

“H-how? Wh-why? Why didn’t you warn me?!” He demands.

“I did!” Tyrion replies, affronted, “I warned everyone, including you, that if she left the North there’d be backlash! I even mentioned that them rejecting her sovereignty was possible!”

“Not this!” Varys hisses, then considers it, “Well, this, but more than this! Her!”

“We’ve been discussing Daenerys for moons now!” Has Varys completely forgotten practically every private discussion they’ve had since they arrived here and their queen began to… show… signs?

“Not Daenerys!” Varys plants the parchment flat on the table and points to the name at the top. “Her! You were married to her for months! You might have warned me that the girl was capable of something like this!”

“Oh, right, how could I have forgotten the lengthy sharing sessions I had with Sansa Stark!” Tyrion snaps, “The one we had after my family had the Boltons and Freys butcher her mother and older brother were especially enlightening!”

Varys leans back, looking chastened. “Olenna Tyrell seemed to get further with her than you ever would, and she thought the lass was as witless as a post.”

“Then she didn’t get further than I did. I knew the girl was clever, at least, and that she hid it. But this? I had no idea.” He takes the parchment in hand and rereads it. “Varys… I think this is legal.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. She, nor her new vassals bent the knee to Daenerys themselves. Even Jon Snow ---”

“---Swore an oath, but never actually bent the knee. And he swore to support her against Cersei.” Tyrion cringes. “And his only title and therefore, accepted authority in the North was relinquished with that oath. And he’s referenced here explicitly as still being Daenerys’s subject, meaning---”

“---Legally, Sansa Stark has not usurped any of Daenerys’s feudal rights.” Varys cringes. “My Lord, how are we to explain this to her when she still refuses to understand that her family’s sovereignty over the Starks was ended by her father?”

Tyrion scowls. Explaining to Daenerys Targaryen that feudalism was a two-way arrangement of obligations was an ongoing task, and that such vows can legally be considered broken by abuses of power from a liege was the crux of their difficulty. It wasn’t just that Rhaegar took Lyanna without the blessing or knowledge of her family, but that when the Starks employed their legal rights to petition their liege, they were murdered for it. That is what violated and ended the rights of protection and service that were sworn between Aegon the Conqueror and Torrhen Stark three hundred years ago. The Starks didn’t break faith, Aerys did. He did so to Jon Arryn as well, when Aerys demanded both of Lord Arryn’s wards.

Now both kingdoms chose (for the third time in seven years) to follow their own monarch. 

Worse, Daenerys set a sort of precedent for it when she granted independence to Yara Greyjoy. And, by leaving, she violated the weak vows and codes she established in the North. Sansa hasn’t lain claim to Jon, so there is no legal basis on which to accuse her of treason. No valid _casus belli._

Considering the swiftness with which the North did this (it is noted repeatedly in the letter that Sansa was crowned the day after Daenerys departed), it’s crystal clear how determined and unwanted the Targaryens are in the North and Vale and the considerable support the new queen has. If Daenerys tries to force them into submission, she’ll have to slaughter so many people that it will permanently cement a reputation for her being a madwoman, which will only lead to more insurrection and resistance from other parties. Her treatment of the Tarlys, the Sands, and the Greyjoys has already made some progress there, not to mention how she burned the Reach’s final autumn harvest. And it’s rendered worse now that she’s abandoned the Starks. And then there’s the Ice Dragon.

Her decisions have made a case for her being as bad or worse than Cersei, and the Iron Bank has only been too happy to encourage that idea, leaving shiny coins in the pockets of bards, maesters, and knights all over the continent. 

Despite how quickly Sansa was crowned, Tyrion notes that this announcement was clearly designed to reach the Targaryen court here, at Dragonstone, when Daenerys would be extremely far from Stark domains and a hair’s breadth away from her battles with Cersei. Sansa was wary enough to make sure that there was significant distance between her and the dragons before she let her rival know.

Still, it’s not as if the Starks are defenseless. It’s not just the leagues and leagues of icy land and stormy seas now between them and Daenerys. The ballistas they’ve constructed were effective enough to ground Rhaegal and repel the Ice Dragon. 

Then there are circumstances. Like it or not, the White Walkers truly are a threat to all of the continent, not just the North. And if the North falls, it will multiply their enemy’s numbers to mean that the South will have practically no chance to combat their forces once they make it past the Neck. The Wall is already gone, and nearly all of the knowledge of this enemy currently rests in Winterfell, thanks to Samwell Tarly’s citadel caper. They already have one dragon, and they’ll have the North’s anti-dragon weapons in addition to their own.

Daenerys, if she intends to win anything, simply cannot afford to attack the North, dragons or no dragons. If she attacks Winterfell especially, not only will she end up immolating thousands of innocent refugees, but she’ll be destroying the last major defensive hold against the White Walkers in the North, along with their library of White Walker lore. It would be like personally escorting the Night’s King to King’s Landing.

Then there’s her current war. She can’t spare the numbers at this point, not with Cersei allied with Euron Greyjoy and the Iron Bank. Daenerys’s army dropped in numbers in the North, as many of her men --- Dothraki and Unsullied bred and trained amidst the hot sands of southern Essos ---- could not handle the frigid climate well. The Golden Company has a history or defeating powerful armies that dwarfed them in numbers. Her best chances to take the Iron Throne and destroy Cersei once and for all was, admittedly, now, before the Iron Fleet arrived with the bulk of Cersei’s numbers.

Not that it’s a clear path now. A chill goes down Tyrion’s spine as he thinks of the Wildfire. Much was used at Blackwater, certainly, and a fair amount must have been employed to destroy the Great Sept of Baelor, but Tyrion is one of the few who has glimpsed the sheer volume of the substance the alchemists have crafted over the years.

And it’s not as if Cersei’s been simply twiddling her thumbs during her enemy’s absence. She was smart enough to fortify and secure major regions like The Reach and significant fortresses like Storm’s End. Not enough to crush them, of course, but Cersei has enough on her side to potentially hold them off long enough for her allies to arrive.

Faith and morale are dwindling, and Daenerys has practically none of Westeros for herself anymore. If they’d stayed in the North, they might have triumphed there, built their support through the War of the Dawn, and brought other parts of the Seven Kingdoms to their cause, enough to combat the Golden Company and Cersei. But now...

“We have to destroy my sister as quickly as possible,” Tyrion says, panicked. “Before her allies get here.”

“But how do we do that,” Varys inquires, “Without reducing millions of people to cinders? Either Daenerys roasts the Red Keep at once, or we prolong the fighting long enough for Cersei to finish what she started with the Great Sept.”

“Do you have any Little Birds in the Alchemists’ Guild?” Tyrion asks hopefully.

Varys nods, but he doesn’t look hopeful. “Not enough to spirit enough wildfire out of the city without Cersei knowing. And that’s assuming the substance is still within the guild halls and not in the Red Keep itself by now. Your sister has always been the possessive sort.”

“So we have to strike quick and hard enough for my sister to be unprepared, in a way that doesn’t require the dragons burning the capital.” Tyrion frowns. He knows better than to think a bluff will work. His sister would happily call them on any threats they make and burn.

The door suddenly bursts open, and in storms their queen, red as a beet. Eyes like violet flame, she flings an unfolded length of sealed parchment onto the table. 

“It seems we owe  _ The Queen of Winter  _ and  _ Iron King Euron _ our well-wishes!” She shrieks.

_ ~_~_~_~_~_~_~ _

Sansa:

_ It’s okay to tremble a bit,  _ she tells herself, as she stands on the dock, watching the gangplanks lower,  _ it will be suspicious if you don’t.  _ The plan goes more smoothly if he thinks she’s trying not to be afraid and failing. She can’t be a frightened child, of course. He knows at least some of what she’s survived, and he knows her to be calculating. And if he wanted a woman who would quiver and weep before him, he would not have pursued Cersei. But a bit of fear will make him more comfortable, make him more certain that he’s in control.

She is supposed to be desperate, even if she’s still shrewd and brave. He isn’t stupid enough to believe this is happening because she desires him. No, he thinks she desires the Iron Throne.

“Are you ready?” Arya mumbles as sailors begin to alight from the ships. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” They’re in this together, but it is Sansa taking the initial risk. Sansa formed the plan. And she is conducting the first phase. But it’s quite brief, especially in comparison to Arya’s role. “What about you?”

Arya snorts. “Are you pulling my leg? I cannot wait!”

Sansa bites her lip. While she’s long since abandoned her prejudices against her sister’s un-ladylike predilections, no part of her will ever be comfortable with how eagerly Arya embraces danger, or the nonchalance with which she looks toward enterprises like this one. Even the rowdy, adventurous girl would have hesitated at the very least towards something like this. But her attitude speaks as loudly of the horrors that seem to have so desensitized her as the mass of scars that lay beneath her tunic.

It’s a gamble, but it would be a greater gamble to try and fight Cersei, the Ironborn, and the Iron Bank once the White Walkers are finished. A greater gamble to fight the White Walkers with fewer men, limited financial backing, and no proper fleet to transport goods. Or fight the Dragon Queen amidst or right after the War for the Dawn, even if Daenerys is already down one dragon.

Sansa takes less comfort in Arya’s confidence and more from the immense white direwolf by her side. She pets his neck without thinking as the sailors begin clearing the way atop the dock for a swaggering, solitary figure.

His face is obscured by a fur-lined hood. Under his cloak he wears a shiny, black leather jerkin etched with a kraken design. 

“They say he’s handsome, at least,” Cecily, standing just behind her lady, offers quietly as the figure descends.

_ His ships are handsome,  _ she thinks, eyeing the fleet of black and gold that manages to gleam even in the dim winter daylight.

“He thinks that he’s going to conquer Westeros by betraying his betrothed and making a salt-wife of the Dragon Queen,” Sansa replies. Ramsay and Joffrey were technically well-made.

Sansa steps forward when the figure stands on solid ground, eyeing him critically. The figure stops and lowers his hood, revealing short brown hair and a beard, glittering blue eyes, and an eager grin. 

Ghost, who had been sitting, stands. 

Euron Greyjoy eyes the direwolf with only the slightest hint of caution and waits for Sansa to urge the wolf back. Then he strides towards Sansa, hands resting at his belt. His expression is a hungry one. 

Sansa was careful with both the portrait she sent him and with her appearance today. She deliberately had made Willam paint her eyes slightly smaller, her neck a bit shorter, and her hair a duller, more brownish shade of auburn. She’d worn a rich but morose plum velvet and her hair in a simple plait. Still a very attractive vision, but she wanted to make sure to exceed expectations in the flesh. Today she dons a gown of dove-grey threaded with icy blue to bring out her eyes, and her hair is only partially pinned back and tumbles down her shoulders in glossy waves.

Euron Greyjoy moves with an easy confidence and stands before her, shoulders back, legs parted, one hand clasping his elbow, chin up. There’s a brief silence as they size one another up, then he begins to laugh. Loudly.

Before saying a word, he looks around at his assembled crew. “And to think, Lads, I’d been wasting my time with that half-hag Cersei! I thought my nephew a traitor for stealing the fleet! But now I say his greatest crime against me is not telling me that this loveliness was hiding away in the North! I guess now I know why he sacked Winterfell!”

The crew all laugh. Sansa’s so very, very happy that she left Willam and Jon back at Winterfell. Euron turns to face her again, grinning and sweeping into an exaggerated bow.

“As you may have guessed, I am Euron of House Greyjoy, Iron King of the Iron Islands, Lord Reaper of Pyke, Commander of the Iron Fleet, at your service.”

The corner of her mouth curls upward. “That’s quite a lot of iron.”

His grin widens. “Just wait and see, Queen Sansa.”

To his credit, once his gaze has lingered a bit, he notes Arya. “You must be the second Stark woman, the Princess Arya of Winterfell. You remind me of my niece.”

Sansa’s ears prick up at the mention of Yara, but represses it, not wanting to seem too eager. Euron Greyjoy may decorate his sails with Krakens, but he’s clearly as wily as a fox. 

“Your niece is a well-renowned warrior,” Arya replies sharply in a way that would normally annoy her older sister. Sansa just pretends to be in this case, “So I take it as a compliment.”

“If you wish, you’re clearly less troublesome than my niece. I hope. I take it you support your sister?”

Arya grits her teeth. “I do. If Sansa says you are welcomed here, then you are welcomed.”

“Needed, I believe.” He looks back to Sansa and gestures out towards the water. “Well, Your Grace, what do you think of my fleet?”

She only slightly ignores that barb and cocks her head. “Truly magnificent. But I expected that and more. It takes more than just an impression flock of boats to earn what I offer you. The Golden Company?”

Euron looks over at a man in a cloak trimmed with cloth of gold and beckons him over. 

He’s a surprising sight for a man who commands the most sought-after mercenary force in the world: portly, with thinning grey hair.

“Harry Strickland, Your Grace, Captain General of the Golden Company.” He bows deeply.

“You are welcome, Captain General Strickland.” She looks to Euron. “The Iron Bank?”

He barks an order. Large chests are carried out and opened, their glittering contents presented to her. Sansa takes some of the coins in hand to weigh them, compares them to Braavosi “dollars” she’s brought with her for reference, and has her maester inspect them. They’re valid.

She looks to Euron again. “And my final request?”

He nods and shouts, “Bring ‘em out!”

As demanded, Yara and Theon Greyjoy are not in chains or collared, though they are unarmed, flanked by guards, and their hands are bound with rope. They are clean and properly dressed. Sansa can barely stand to meet Theon’s betrayed look. Heart in her throat, she approaches Yara, who glares at her.

“You are Yara of House Greyjoy, daughter of Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke?”

The conquered queen sneers. “Yes.”

“When is Theon’s Name Day?”

Yara blinks in confusion. “The third day of the Seventh Moon.”

Sansa smiles. “In exchange for my hand and this alliance, I insisted to your Uncle Euron that you and your brother be kept in warm, comfortable, and sanitary conditions. That you be given regular, proper meals, beds to sleep on, warm and comfortable clothing, and that you not be beaten, raped, or marked. Have these demands been met?”

Yara grits her teeth. “Yes.”

“I take you both as my hostages, then,” Sansa replies, “You will be given chambers at Winterfell and treated as guests as long as you do not harm anyone or try to escape. I grant you my protection and hospitality. As your brother can attest to, we treat our hostages well. Do you accept, Princess Yara?”

The other woman shuts her eyes and nods. 

She doesn’t want to. If Theon hadn’t gotten himself caught, she wouldn’t. But with absolutely no support from Daenerys after Yara and her fleet were captured, Theon’s rescue mission was doomed. 

The entire Ironborn affair told Sansa a great many things. First of all, it helped her prepare for what seemed a near-inevitable abandonment by their Targaryen “ally”. When Jon recounted their parlay with Cersei, Sansa had inquired if Daenerys had asked for Yara or the Sands back. Surprised by the question, Jon shook his head. It was Yara and Theon Greyjoy and their fleet that brought Daenerys back to Westeros in the first place. Without them, she’d still be stranded in Meereen, likely bleeding gold and wasting time waiting for her own navy to be built. But they brought her here. And all they asked for was conditional independence. When they were captured, she did nothing. Not for them or for the Sands. Even when Theon somehow escaped back to Dragonstone to plead for aid, by Jon’s own account, he had to fist-fight one of his remaining sailors to recuit him, a handful of men, and a rowboat to try and get his sister back.

It also told Sansa that Daenerys has a habit of sending a paltry amount of poorly-equipped men to undertake absurd tasks. There was this, and there was the absurd wight-capturing enterprise.

Furthermore, the affair told Sansa much about Euron. It was notable that despite an apparent reason to do otherwise, he kept both siblings alive, despite their thorough defeats. Each of them were clearly useful for manipulating the other, but to what end, once Euron had everything? Their claims, perhaps? Their connections to other families? Their symbolic use as trophies --- he paraded Yara, Ellaria Sand and her daughter, Tyene through the streets of King’s Landing, after all. Did he keep them alive to perhaps strengthen his support among vassals who might have sympathies towards the Greyjoy siblings?

Regardless of his reasons, he isn’t a Frey and he isn’t Ramsay. He might make loud proclamations about being a killer, but he’s more dangerous than a standard murderer. He had knowledge and understanding of manipulation and the right person’s worth. All the ruthlessness and lusts of Ramsay, but with Roose’s acumen. And he likes playing games.

She note the hungry look in Euron’s blue eyes as his niece surrenders. It’s for Theon’s sake she agrees. Sansa vaguely wonders how much of that is affection Yara has for Theon, or spite for Euron and a desire for at least one potential rival to her hated uncle to survive. Sansa knows what it is to survive out of spite.

But Sansa needs to hear it. “Princess Yara?”

“Yes, Whore!”

Sansa has to step in between Yara and the nearest guard to keep him from striking the fallen queen. Yara Greyjoy will be eating those words soon enough. Sansa shrugs and turns to her foster-brother.

“And you, Prince Theon?”

“Y-Yes, Your Grace.” He does it for Yara, as Yara does for him.  _ As he once did for me.  _

Shaken, Sansa turns away. “Brienne, Jaime, please escort the prince and princess to their mounts.”

As they are taken away, Sansa approaches Euron again, forcing a smile to her lips. 

“That’s what I like to see,” the Iron King says as she gets closer.

“It seems you’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain, Your Grace,” she says, “I am quite satisfied.”

“Oh, I’m not done satisfying you, I promise,” Euron says, eyes glinting. “In fact, there seems to be something missing…”

“What?” She’s genuinely curious.

He reaches into the folds of his cloak. “You’re a queen, and a queen should have a crown. That Lannister bitch wears one, I say you should wear one finer.”

Sansa isn’t sure how he managed to carry that box within his cloak, but she can’t deny being impressed when he opens it. And intricately-melded circlet of white gold, diamonds, and sapphires glitters before her, forming interlocking wolves, trout, falcons, and crescent moons. The Queen in the North gapes. She wonders about the Trout. Half-Tully she may be, but the Riverlands are not yet part of her domains. The actual control of it is in a state of flux, really. No side has had the time or resources to secure and claim it.  _ Is this a message?  _ A question for later.

“May I?” 

_ The crown might as well be a collar,  _ she thinks,  _ he’s trying to dazzle you and mark his territory. _

This does not matter. She plays the game and says, breathlessly, “You may.”

Her betrothed takes his time and takes every opportunity to stroke her hair as he places the coronet on her head and pins it in place. He leans in, inhales deeply, and whispers, “What do you think of your new king, My Queen?”

_ I think he’s a posturing brute with money and enough stupid people to follow him.  _ “He exceeds my expectations,” she murmurs.

He moves from behind her. “A week, you promised,” he reminds her. She nods.

“I’ve prepared it carefully. To ensure that the validity of our alliance and match cannot be questioned, I’ve invited all of my chief vassals to witness it. It shall take us two days to reach Winterfell, and five to settle everyone, sign our marriage contract, prepare the festivities. I have marching orders for portions of your forces, and I want to have them properly stationed as well. I hope you understand.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re an exacting sort, aren’t you?”

Sansa nods. “I’m meticulous in everything I do, Your Grace. But I think you benefit from that  _ greatly.”  _ She smiles sensuously, then leans in and whispers, “After all, how are we to pull this off and build our empire if we don’t put  _ everything  _ in place?”

He’s practically purring. “Good point. And how may  _ I  _ help you ‘put everything in place’?”

Sansa blushes at the obvious entendre. “A week, My Lord. My people and my allies will revolt if they think the Queen in the North was violated by a pirate. But I promise you, once we’re wed, you’ll get more than your share of marching orders. You just need to act respectable for seven days, and you’ll have what you desire. Can you manage to act like a gentleman for that long?”

“I’m not sure.” He states this like an appealing promise.

But Sansa shows no amusement. “I’d have hoped the greatest captain on the fourteen seas would be man enough to be gentle as well as iron,” she laments, “Any fool can act like a brute. My last husband was. But don’t worry, there will be plenty of people around to make sure you behave yourself.”

She gestures towards Brienne, Podrick, her many guards. 

“Never fear, Your Grace, that won’t be necessary.” His laugh is like a bark. “Even a brute like me can be gentle with you to motivate him. I was even willing to be gentle with the Lannister Shrew, and she wasn’t half as lovely as you.”

_ Show some vulnerability. Act like you’re falling for it, like you’re starting to trust him.  _ “I’m glad to hear it, King Euron,” she says, pretending to hesitate, “But, I feel, if you’re willing to be gentle with me… then I should be forthright with you.”

“Ah, so you have something to confess, do you?” Euron asks, “What is it?”

_ You’ll never lay a hand on me so long as you live, and that won’t be very long at all.  _

“My… my last husband didn’t just take my maidenhead,” she says, glancing downward and biting her lip, “He… He was the same man who… who, well, did all those things to your nephew. He left my face unmarked, but… He liked his knives, and he liked leaving marks elsewhere. The truth is… I have a few unsightly scars.”

This finally seems to rattle the Iron King. He looks doubtful for a moment. “Ramsay Bolton cut off Theon’s cock. What did he cut off of you?”

Sansa is taken aback by this. “I… He… His mistress threatened he would eventually, but I wasn’t with him long enough for that to start.” She releases the reins and starts pulling her gloves off, and shows him her naked hands. “I have all of my fingers. And all of my toes. He kept to cutting into me, but didn’t sever anything.”

“Nothing… elsewhere? Nothing…” He glances at her mid-section.

_ Oh.  _ She feels so stupid.  _ Of course that’s what he means. He expects sons from me.  _ “No, he needed heirs from me, he didn’t dare damage those parts. He still wanted a desirable wife. He kept to my arms, legs, feet, and back. I’ve been examined since, and I am willing to undergo inspection from one of your maesters if necessary. I’m completely fertile. Completely intact.”

Euron’s grin returns. “Well, that’s alright then!”

“You… You don’t mind?”

“Hardly. Besides… I like a woman who can take a little punishment.”

Her blood goes cold. “I’ll take no punishment from you, My Lord!”

He laughs again. “Then maybe I’ll be the one taking the punishment, eh? That would be fun. I only meant that I like a woman who’s tough. If I don’t like what I see on your back, I’ll keep my eyes on your teats. I may like what I see, though. Maybe I’ll make a game of tracing all those scars with my tongue.” He flicks it at her for emphasis.

“Please don’t say things like that around my family. They won’t react well.”

“You think I’d discuss such things with them?” He affects the most unconvincing tone of innocence.

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “Jaime Lannister serves me now. He told me about the ‘advice’ you sought from him.”

“Hardly the same thing! He was fucking her! The only brother you have is dead below the waist!”

Sansa wants to strangle him for talking about Bran like that. 

_ A week,  _ she reminds herself,  _ it’ll only be a week. _

~_~_~_~_~_~

Cersei:

“Your Grace, please,” Qyburn pleads, reaching towards her. Whether he means to take the spilling cup from her right hand or the sealed letter from her left she can’t be sure, but she’ll let him take neither. Everyone else has taken from her, but not him. He will not do it.

“The child…” He says weakly as she yanks herself out of arm’s length. She fixes her eyes on her throne.  _ Hers.  _ No one else’s. The thing she’s earned, taken for herself, sacrificed everything for… her body, her soul, her heart, her pride, her children, her whole family…

“Will probably just betray me, like his father and brother!” She snaps, climbing the dais towards her seat. Her rightful seat.

“You need an heir, Your Grace…”

“To what?!” She barks, turning to sit and gaze upon the otherwise empty throne room. Her whole court has fled for winter… Fools… Cowards… There’s only Qyburn, her genius, who now looks so pathetic, old, hunched, and weak. She gives him what he wants, though, crumbling part of the parchment in a single fist and flinging it at her Hand’s head. “This realm shall die with me!”

_ Father would be furious to hear that, _ she thinks, gazing around at the Lannister decor. The lions seem to roar at her in his absence. Taunt her in Tyrion’s. “The only thing standing between this place and utter ruin has been taken from me!”

She feels the wedges and barbs of the Iron Throne more keenly than ever against her aching back, but she leans in, as a sort of defiance.

“The Iron Bank and Euron have given themselves to the  _ whore,  _ Sansa!” Cersei screams, “The wolf-bitch who murdered my son!”

She can practically hear Jaime’s contrary, stupid voice reply to her,  _ But she didn’t kill Joffrey, Cersei. It was Olenna Tyrell, she told me herself.  _ Who truly cares? Why trust the Old Bat, who probably just wanted to grasp at some sort of false triumph as she lost everything? And even if she was honest about it, Sansa Stark wanted Joffrey dead, which is just as good. And she plotted to escape at the time. And she… she…

_ She’s a queen. Younger, more… _

_ No! _

Daenerys. Surely it’s Daenerys, right? Sure, Cersei made a mistake before, thinking it was Margaery. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was Margaery. But Cersei destroyed Margaery. And The Faith. The High Sparrow. At the exact hour they intended to destroy her, she burned them to nothing.

But Sansa has Jaime now. And Euron. Cersei never loved or wanted Euron, just his ships and his men. He was just a tool. 

But a flattering one. She cannot deny that she was charmed when he declared that he’d come to pursue her because he wanted to wed ‘the most beautiful woman in the world.’ That was even more validating as he brought her the Sands and was willing to continue fighting for her on the strength of a promise. Sure, she wasn’t as young as Daenerys Targaryen, but the King of the Iron Islands still believed her the most beautiful enough to risk everything for her.

Even if he was exaggerating, even if he saw her as a tool, he still wanted her. And what did it matter, when he was so willing to be so effective on her behalf?

Jaime broke her heart, of course. She never should have let him leave. She just couldn’t bring herself to half him killed or imprisoned.  _ Weakness, a woman’s weakness,  _ she thinks furiously. And he swore himself to Sansa Stark. Well, really, to that giant Aurochs pretending to be a woman pretending to be a knight. Sansa Stark is just a side-effect. But he chose that hideous oaf over Cersei. And he told them everything. And now…

Euron, though, is almost worse. Not just because of the beauty thing. But specifically because she hadn’t loved Euron. Because she was supposed to be using solely her wits, playing the game, manipulating him as so many had manipulated her. This was supposed to be purely her brilliance at play here. No affairs of the heart people claimed women were so susceptible to. Just her mind, as keen as a man’s. 

And now it’s backfired completely. 

Losing her heart was one thing. Cersei’s wanted to lose that for years and years. But to think her wits aren’t enough… No!

She downs the rest of her wine and looks angrily at Qyburn, who is re-reading the letter, as if he’s too stupid to have understood it the first time. “Give that back right now!” She snaps.

Going a bit pale, he reluctantly climbs the steps of the royal dais and hands it over. She snatches it and drops the cup in his hands, then flattens out the parchment to scan the script.

_ It is with greatest pride and joy that the royal Houses of the North and the Iron Islands, House Stark and House Greyjoy, announce the impending nuptials between Her Grace Queen Sansa the ‘Winter Rose’, First of Her Name, Queen of the Realms of the North and the Vale, Queen of Winter, Ruler of the First Men, Lady of Winterfell, the Dreadfort, and Harrenhal, Protector of the Realm and His Grace Iron king Euron of House Greyjoy, First of his Name, Iron King of the Iron Isles, Commander of the Iron Fleet, and Lord Reaper of Pyke. This union of monarchs shall cemented the eternal alliance and love between the kingdoms of Winter and the Ironborn in perpetuity… _

She rereads the whole thing. They invite all the “countries and heads of state” in Westeros to delight in their love for one another. The bride is quoted as calling her husband-to-be ‘the fiercest and most dashing of warriors’. The groom apparently says ‘I have seen all the most celebrated beauties and queen in the world now, and I can say my new bride is without rival, the most beautiful woman in the world.’

Cersei retches so hard she drops the announcement and tumbles forward. 

“Your Grace!” Qyburn cries stupidly, trying to catch her. But she pushes him away. 

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME!” She shrieks. Cersei feels like Qyburn’s grasping hands have become a thousand, clawed, groping. Scratching her as she falls. 

_ This isn’t supposed to happen,  _ she thinks wildly,  _ I destroyed the younger, more beautiful queen. Have two taken her place? _

She hears laughter. From Euron, from Margaery, from Daenerys, from Sansa, from Tyrion, from all of those who laughed at her as she was forced to walk the streets of King’s Landing naked…

But she survived that. She triumphed. Without Father, without Jaime, without Robert or Littlefinger or Joffrey or Varys or Uncle Kevan… And now, she stops falling. She’s in Ser Gregor’s arms. The reanimated knight holds her like a child.

“Seven Hells, Your Grace! The babe!” Qyburn cries.

Cersei can already feel the blood staining her petticoats, and she smiles. Another brat to leave her, betray her, or be used against her and slaughtered by her enemies? What does it matter now?

“Burn them all,” she whispers, “Burn them all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed it! Don't worry, there's more background and southern hijinks to come, just let me know what you think so far!


	4. How to Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding approaches and everyone feels the pressure mount.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to fireandiceandrage for her beta-work!

Jaime:

Both the Northmen and the Ironborn have well-earned reputations for being a rowdy people, he’s seen it with his own eyes. The Welcome Banquet is almost… hushed.

There is conversation, of course. The groom’s  retinue make more merry than the bride’s, gleefully devouring the lamb and beef and green vegetables, downing the wine and ale. They eat so much so fast that their mouths are too full to speak properly. And it’s not hard to guess why. Some of them have been at sea for years on end and their best meals had been tavern slop.

Jaime once saw Winterfell as a poor hovel of a castle, being used to the gilded splendor of the Red Keep and Casterly Rock. But back then Jaime’s eyes were too immature and unsophisticated, his mind was too listless to see the wealth of the North. Its wealth wasn’t silk and gold, it was heat and food and stone, the things that truly built people and preserved them. Things so hearty and high-quality they could endure and even bloom amidst unrelenting ice. In this instance, the gold of Casterly Rock was really copper: pretty, but worthless for anything but convincing others that it wasn’t. Winterfell’s heat and food and strength was the true gold. The mines of Casterly Rock are dried up, and Cersei is losing everything, having seized so much of it just to give it to the Iron Bank. But Winterfell’s glass houses are filled with growing string beans, spinach and tomatoes even as winter rages on. They don’t feed banker’s pockets but people’s bellies, who in turn grow more, all while their queen seizes everything Cersei paid the last of her gold for.

Not that the North and its queen aren’t paying their own price. While the Ironborn stuff their faces, the Northmen glower, only seeming half resigned to the situation. Two years ago the Ironborn were raiding their shores, pillaging their lands. While that had been under Balon’s rule, not Euron’s, it  made little difference. The Kraken ships and their sailors are back, and while they are not technically raiding, their king intends to bed their queen.

Jaime wonders vaguely which was the worse match for Sansa Stark in the eyes of the Northerners: Euron Greyjoy or his own brother. At least with Tyrion they didn’t have to watch.

Then again, every Northman strongly suspects there’s more going on than meets the eye. Their queen proposed the match to them the moment she was crowned  and asked them to trust her, heavily implying some sort of ulterior motive . Many of the lords here were savvy enough to pick up on that.

They didn't know the exact nature of the plot; their queen hadn't shared details with them for obvious reasons. Making knowledge of her scheme too widespread would guarantee their enemies would know of it.

But while they might understand, they didn’t like it. Not knowing what was truly happening meant they couldn’t be sure it would work, that their new queen wouldn’t just end up a victim to the foul pirate she was marrying. Jaime understands the sentiment, but he finds it rather rich that they’re so worked up about not being involved in handling Sansa Stark’s brutish new husband when they outright refused to help her with the last one.

Maybe it’s because of their past failure they knew better than to fight her on this.

Jaime doesn’t know the plan either. There are who do, and Jaime has his suspicions on who those people are --- Bran, obviously, Brienne, Arya, Jon Snow. She may have also told her lover, but Jaime isn’t as sure about that. Willam Manderly is hard to read. Jaime never knows what is sincere and what is an act with him.

He knows that Manderly hasn’t shared the queen’s bed in a Moon’s turn; the queen can’t risk a pregnancy He has however, shared a few gasping, private moments with Queen Sansa since, but Jaime is certain it’s not gone beyond some heavy petting and wet kisses. Although Jaime can’t be sure if the two are putting off coupling by necessity or if the queen is trying and failing to end the relationship. Sansa Stark is even harder to read than her lover, so for all Jaime knows she could be constantly telling herself that this was _the last time---_

If that’s the case, Jaime still doesn’t know if she’ll actually manage to really  end things at some point. He and Cersei went through a phase where she truly intended to end things, just after her wedding. There were some heated moments at first where she stopped him just short of lovemaking, then she did manage to completely hold him off for long enough for Jaime to fear that it truly was over. She came back after her son with Robert died, and sometimes Jaime wonders if she would have had the lad lived. .

He’s only wondered that recently, mostly because he questions everything now, especially where Cersei is concerned.

Despite the lack of revelry in the Hall, Jaime is enjoying himself. His post by the main entrance lets him watch as the Northern lords furiously battle with their desire to go to battle with their guests. Lyanna Mormont and Ned Umber both have had to be excused already.  Lord Glover’s face is twitching so much he can’t keep all his food in his mouth. Lord Duncan, known as “The Big Liddle”, has already bent three forks. The dark-eyed Flints watch the groom with glares as steely as their name, their gazes so constant that Jaime has made a game of counting how many times they blink. Lord Manderly, too fat to sit a horse, has no appetite for the first time in his life.

It’s fun.

Less fun is the miserable look in Brienne’s eyes as she hovers near her liege. She hates every moment of this.

So does the former Dolt King Jon, but his anguish is much more entertaining. . Jaime doesn’t think much of most of the Northerners, that’s true, but he finds the stupid bastard especially annoying. . In fact, the only time Jaime doesn’t find him irritating is when he takes it upon himself to irritate Jon instead. And sometimes when someone else does the honors.

As far as Jaime’s concerned, a person can be dumb, or a person can be glum. But both at the same time is utterly unacceptable. Most idiots have the decency to appreciate their ignorance and not feel sorry for themselves,  but this one doesn’t. Those who know nothing should be happy. After all, the more Jaime learns of the world, the more miserable he gets. And he still manages to find the humor in things. So what gives this sod the right to constantly mope?

He actually finds Euron’s presence more enjoyable. For one thing, there’s a certain perverse satisfaction Jaime feels in knowing that not only did Euron never get to fuck Cersei, but that Cersei was carrying Jaime’s child throughout the Iron King’s failed mission to do so. Greyjoy grins and preens, but on occasion when his gaze does drift to Jaime, their eyes meet, and the Kingslayer sees a flash of furious embarrassment. Those looks are pure bliss.

Even Euron’s obvious delight in his new intended is immensely fun. It’s clear that while the man is embarrassed about being tricked, he considers his new prize more than enough consolation.

When Euron delivered the Sands to Cersei, she leaned towards him and told him that he would have what he desires from her as a reward, and at that moment his eyes glittered like stars and he practically panted like a dog. That image is forever branded into Jaime’s memory. He always looked at Cersei with a smug lust, but in that moment , he seemed so excited Jaime half expected him to start thrusting his hips against Cersei’s skirts like a puppy.

With his new queen, though, he’s been wearing that expression since he stepped off the boat. One would think the woman had her teats out and was begging him to suckle at them by the look on his face.

Jaime isn’t sure he gets it. The young queen is a beauty, true, but more desirable than Cersei?

The thought troubles him. He’s seen the depths of Cersei’s ugliness, fled from her, and yet he can’t help but question how a man can prefer one of the most celebrated beauties in Westeros to his twin. It’s a frightening thought that even having fled thousands of miles from the woman, she still has such an effect on him. That he can even think of her this way. _If I were a smart, sane, or decent man, I would only be able to think on her in terms of disgust. What is wrong with me?_

A nasty little voice in the back of his mind whispers, _because her ugliness is yours, you spent too many years sharing in it gleefully. You are rotted beyond repair. You and her will always be one in the worst way._

Jaime shakes his head slightly, trying to banish Cersei’s face from his mind. He shouldn’t think of that. No. Euron’s face.

Euron Greyjoy is more smug and swaggering than ever, and is clearly thrilled. He enjoys the outrage from his bride-to-be’s subjects, he likes flaunting all this.

When he courted Cersei, there were really only a couple of people to be outraged on her  behalf. Other than Jaime and Qyburn, who showed some irritation, no one seemed to care. Hell, the throne room was nearly empty during most of their meetings and when vassals were present, they seemed pretty ambivalent. Sansa Stark is another story. Now there’s a packed hall  of people who very clearly _do_ care. Hundreds of red, angry faces Greyjoy can rub his glee in. And the man does love to provoke.

Then there’s the physical proximity. Cersei, atop the Iron Throne and flanked by guards, always kept a distance. The closest Euron ever got to her was about two yards.

The Stark Queen rode by his side all the way to Winterfell and dines right beside him, on equal footing. He has actually touched her, taking her hand and kissing it. He seems to enjoy leaning in close, whispering  in her ear, and making like he’s about to kiss her neck.

Not that anything truly scandalous has happened. At one point, the Iron King put his hand on her shoulder, only for her to smack it away and for a half dozen people around her to reach for their blades. He hasn’t tried it again since. His eyes might as well be molesting her, but his hands do not.

Euron likes the proximity regardless; he’s close enough to smell her perfume and has already felt how soft and smooth her hands are. He can imagine the rest of her is just as pleasing. He’ll know soon enough, the wedding is only a few days away.

The man seems to be enjoying the wooing, too. The Queen of Winter, to her credit, is playing the part of the wary but curious coquette well. There were never any illusions that Cersei would love him, but Euron seems to enjoy  the possibility of making a queen fall for him. Not because he loves her, Jaime doubts a man like that can love anyone but himself, but  because a person in love can truly be possessed. Jaime knows that better than anyone.

The queen hasn’t stolen any furtive kisses with her favorite since Euron arrived, she’s not stupid,but when Euron and his people are certainly absent, she steals a few longing glances at Manderly. Whenever Euron departs her presence, she never fails to drop her coquettish smile for a look that screams ‘I WANT A BATH!’

She’s going to play him like Cersei, only she’ll succeed. Hell, Cersei only failed because Sansa pulled her plot right out from under her. And that’s what makes Euron’s thrilled, smug triumph outright hilarious.

Also, it’s bothering the ever living fuck out of Snow, who should really change his name to Eggplant with the color he’s turned.

Whatever the Stark Queen’s exact plan is, Jaime is confident she’ll succeed. Bran Stark seems completely calm. He’s the only calm person in the hall, watching his sister and her betrothed with a content interest.

Jaime wishes the Stark lad would only look at them. Every time his eyes meet those of the boy he crippled all those years ago, he feels like retching. Bran Stark acts as casual and unconcerned about the incident now as he does with literally everything; he seems to have lost his ability to feel along with the use of his legs. Jaime envies that, because being around Bran Stark so much makes him feel enough anguish for both of them. He deserves it. Bran had only been a lad who wanted to climb and now…

So much of this horror can be traced back to that day. People say Jaime lost his honor the day he became the Kingslayer. They are wrong. If Jaime has truly lost all his hopes for honor, he did so on the day he pushed Bran Stark off that tower.

At one point during the meal, one of the other guards approaches him. “The queen requests a private audience with you in her chambers once the banquet is over.”

This genuinely surprises Jaime. He glances over at the queen, who meets his eyes, then leans over to whisper something to her betrothed. Whatever she says makes him glance at Jaime, then throw his head back in exaggerated laughter. It might sting if the queen didn’t roll her eyes as her bridegroom cackled.

Still, his surprise at this summons distracts him for the rest of the banquet. When he first arrived at Winterfell, the first thing the Stark Queen did was throw him in a cell. She brought a man with an impressive-looking knife to the dungeon and told Jaime that he _would_ tell her everything.

_“Of course I will, Madam,” he had replied mildly, “Why do you think I’m here? Euron Greyjoy is overseas recruiting the Golden Company for Cersei to betray you all. She still has gallons and gallons of wildfire at her disposal. She’s pregnant with our fourth child. Snow has begun to fall in King’s Landing and Ellaria Sand currently languishes in the dungeon of the Red Keep, forced to watch her daughter’s body decompose in front of her. There’s more, of course. How much time do you have?”_

He couldn’t help but feel some pride at how much this had seemed to startle the then Lady Stark.

She eventually freed him and, on Brienne’s recommendation, named him to the castle guard. It is certainly a drop in status from Lord Commander, he gets the worst shifts and, for the most part, his mistress seems to go out of her way to ignore him. According to Brienne, she is still baffled by the fact that her younger brother told her to accept Jaime.

It’s not a terrible arrangement, but it’s clear the queen tolerates him on the words of others. Once he’d recounted everything, she mostly lost interest. She only had him accompany her to receive Euron because Brienne asked.

A private audience? Jaime knows that she means what she says. Private is private to this woman. As in, no other people. Even the guards are outside the door, the servants are dismissed. The Red Keep taught her the value of true confidentiality.

He looks to Brienne, askance, as if she might somehow communicate an explanation to him from across the Hall. She eventually gives him that, ‘Stop looking at me, I’m trying to concentrate’ look that’s become a habit with her.

The banquet ends late, but Jaime is as alert as ever, nervous about his royal meeting. His eyes meet the queen’s as she departs, and he soon files out as well.

When he arrives at her chamber door, he finds Podrick the squire there. The lad, who seems to be permanently befuddled, nods to him. “Her Grace will see you shortly. The two of you are to guard the door until she summons you.”

“The two of us?”

Podrick nods and whistles. Jaime’s heart sinks when he sees the massive white figure round the corner.

“For fuck’s sake! Am I ever going to be allowed to serve this post without that fucking animal?”

“Probably not.” Podrick bows like a little shit and marches off.

Jaime groans as that overgrown freak goes to sit against the opposite wall and glares at him with red eyes. Every time Jaime’s been assigned the night shift for any Stark chamber, he’s made to do it with this fucking wolf. The thing never takes its eyes off of Jaime. It growls whenever Jaime so much as slouches, but otherwise rarely makes a sound.

All the other guards find it hilarious.

Mercifully, he doesn’t have to wait too long. Cecily, the queen’s mousy maid, emerges from the chambers and curtseys. “Her Grace will see you now.”

Jaime nods and enters alone. The smell of apples, cinnamon, and cloves hit his nostrils. A pot of cider is over the fire.

Queen Sansa sits in a chair by the fire, in a blue dressing gown, her hair loosely woven into a low plait that hangs over her shoulder. Though her profile is remarkably still, her hands are working at a mesmerizing pace on the length of dark cloth in her lap. Jaime pauses to watch the glint of the needle as she rapidly draws it in and out of the black weave and a golden shape seems to spread like water along it.

Cersei loathed sewing, seeing it as “Stupid Women’s Work.” He has a few vague memories of watching his mother at it, but he was so young when she died that he not sure how much of that is true memory or just dreams he had. Now that he thinks of it, he’s rarely had a chance to witness much textile work firsthand since the days when he and Cersei used to switch places. He finds it oddly fascinating now.

He has several silent moments to observe when all of a sudden, the queen greets him.

“Good evening, Ser Jaime,” she says, “Did you get a chance to try anything at the banquet?”

“Ah, no, Your Grace. I was on shift the entire time.”

“I ordered that everyone get relieved for a period so they might have a chance to eat. I’ll tell Brienne to make sure the men don’t forget next time.”

No one “forgot”, Jaime noticed the changing of the guard for everyone but himself and Brienne during the feast. None of them were going to stand on call so he could eat.

“It’s no trouble, I had some stew beforehand.”

“Your feet must be killing you,” she gestures to the chair opposite hers, “Sit.”

They are, but Jaime hesitates before sitting, only moving when he sees the amused expression on the queen’s face.

“You’re too kind, Your Grace,” he says awkwardly.

“It’s a point of pride with me to always remember my courtesies.” She glances down at the garment she’s crafting for the first time since he entered the room. “You were observing my project. It’s a doublet. His Grace’s wedding present.”

Jaime smiles weakly, he’s distracted but he means it when he says, “No doubt the king will be touched that you crafted something for him with your own hands.” Why is she trying to chat? They’re not friends. In his experience, when someone who has spent most of their time ignoring you suddenly starts acting like your friend, it means they have something majorly unpleasant to request. Either that or they’re about to hand you a flagon of horse piss to drink.

Jaime has no idea what it is she could possibly want from him. He’s already told her everything and, as he now knows, Bran’s abilities mean she never really needed him for that, either.

“I hope so.” She keeps sewing. “So, to business. I have a task for you on my wedding night. Brienne swears to me that you can be trusted. Here is your chance to prove it.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

She asks Arya to come to the chambers later. Ever since Euron arrived, her sister has been her bedmate to keep up appearances. It’s been maddening, not just because Arya kicks in her sleep, but because of the distinct lack of privacy.

There’s been a certain itch that, three evenings prior to her wedding, she can no longer leave unscratched. So with her chamber door barred and the curtains drawn, Sansa slips out of her gown and goes to lie on the bed.

The first time she touched herself was at the Eyrie, one long lonely night where she had little to do and realized the lack of eyes upon her. She was constantly watched at the Red Keep but there? It was the Eyrie, where would she go? Who would she contact?

So she’d closed her eyes and thought of Ser Loras and his warm curls, his flat stomach and strong arms. She thought of one of the stablehands of the castle, a young man with piercing hazel eyes. And, oddly enough, she thought of Sandor Clegane and his towering height and powerful hands.

She did so nearly every night throughout her time in the Vale, but  she stopped once she returned to Winterfell, only ever reaching between her legs to inspect the damage. And it was something she pretty much forgot about from then on.

Then: Willam. Her mind wanders to her lover just as her fingers wander beneath the skirt of her shift.

She found sweet relief from the stress, from the pressure, from the worries, unexpectedly in the embrace of a man. A carnal embrace, the sort Sansa thought would certainly be spoiled for her, if not forever, then for many years to come.

Willam is young, but accomplished, unwed, and has no bastards. He serves forming the defenses of Winterfell, and is a complete innovator. He is gentle, patient, and considerate. Not grasping, since growing up the youngest nephew of a lord does not groom a person for entitlement. He is well-traveled, cultured and so handsome: tall, long-limbed, athletic, with cheekbones high and sharp enough to cut glass. His green eyes are large, round, somewhat sunken, his lips are full, bow-shaped, and red; his hair is a thick, wavy cascade of chestnut.

His uncle, Lord Manderly, presents him as an ideal advisor to shore up Winterfell’s defenses against the enemy. Given Willam’s stature as the youngest son of a youngest son and Lord Manderly’s famously sharp political instincts, it’s possible Willam was brought to court to also serve as a potential consort for the Lady of Winterfell. Willam is far from the only young, unwed lordling without any fiefdom of his own who has been introduced.

But Ser Willam Manderly distinguishes himself by actually being useful. The weapons he designs actually repelled a siege of the castle by the enemy, wounding the enemy’s Ice Dragon. In the weeks leading up to the siege, he worked closely and reverently with Sansa, actually asking for her feedback, listening, and treating her as if she is intelligent enough to understand his work.

He flatters her, both directly and indirectly.

Indirectly by not acting completely patronizing towards her and actually discussing matters with her with the attitude of someone who assumes she can keep up and contribute. Even some of her most devoted vassals fail to do that consistently. Getting used to how Willam spoke to her was interesting. Sure, there were many things she didn’t know and needed explained, but he always waited for her to ask and never speaks as if she’s somehow foolish for not knowing. In fact, he often chides himself for not realizing when a certain technicality requires explanation. He recommends books to her from his own collection on certain subjects that bring her up to speed. And he delights in discussing his work, not with a smug sense of greater knowledge, but with genuine passion for his pursuits.

Willam is one of the only people who can make Sansa smile while discussing a possible impending siege. His genuine enthusiasm for strategy and including her in the process is something she’s never encountered before. With Willam it’s ‘ _Look! Maybe we can do this, which works like this, or this, which works like this! It’s amazing how this works! Which do you like best, my lady?’_

Other council members present gruff, brief descriptions of their ideas, stating them as the best the best course of action , but rarely offering an explanation and spending most of their attention and energy fighting whatever idiot dares disagree instead of convincing the queen.  She sometimes finds herself sitting at the table as lords shout over one another as if she’s not there, only speaking to her to tell her that if they are denied what they think is best she’s dooming everyone.  All too often, she has to raise her voice and pound her fist against the tabletop to shut them up, and then, when she makes inquiries they seem amazed, always unprepared for her to engage with them on such a level.

Gradually, her council has inoticed how much more effective Ser Willam’s approach is and have changed their approach at meetings. . However, some of them have learned the wrong lesson from their young peer, thinking that lowering their voices, speaking in a condescending manner, and tacking on non-sequiter compliments helps.

In the council chamber, ironically enough, it’s her suitor who refrains from mentioning her “loveliness”.

Outside the council meetings, it can be completely different. Sansa feels she should know better, but when the formalities of governance are put aside, she can’t help but melt at some of the things he says. Willam often says things that remind her  of a cloying troubadour seeking a new patroness or a cadlike lordling but with an air of humor and self-awareness. He often blushes or acts overly theatrical in an attempt to make her laugh. She always feels like Willam is well aware that she’s too smart to fall for lofty words and praise, but that she enjoys them nonetheless, so he plays the part to make her happy.

Sansa isn’t sure how she feels about Willam. Or, rather, how she should feel. Her heart quivers when he enters a room now, as it did and still does for Jon.

Willam is quiet, like Jon could be, not wishing to dominate conversations with his preferred topics, but waiting for her to introduce one at her own pace. He demands nothing from her. He smiles at her softly as she holds onto his arm. And she does melt. But is she truly in love, or is she trying to replace Jon? Can someone love two people at once like this?

She doesn’t wish to mislead him. Willam deserves better.

He is more than sweet words. He’s proven himself.

When Winterfell was attacked, he personally manned the ballistas, and insisted on Sansa being present to command him. It was on her cue that he fired the shot that pierced the Ice Dragon’s wing. They ended up repelling and damaging the enemy before Jon and his great Dragon Queen even reached Winterfell. Something that no vassals, including Willam, have forgotten.

The night following their triumph, Sansa, nervous and unsure of her feelings, asked him to accompany her for a walk to the godswood during the celebrations. He agreed, and they walked in silence for the most part.

Sansa, atop her furs, closes her eyes at the memory.

_Snow falls in the winter evening, but Willam carries a torch in his free hand. She can see the snowflakes melting in his hair, on his skin, by the glow from the fire. His eyes are admiring, gentle, but serious in their own way._

_Sansa takes a deep breath. “More and more of my vassals are calling for me to declare myself Queen of the North and the Vale. Supplant Jon.”_

_“Can someone really supplant a king who has already relinquished his crown?” Willam remarks, “It seems to me none of them want this foreign woman.”_

_“Jon wouldn’t have bent the knee if he didn’t think we need her support against this enemy.”_

_“And she was willing to hold the lives of millions hostage until he did? That doesn’t sound like a promising monarch. She’s already given the enemy an Ice Dragon, one we repelled. I can see why the lords and ladies would rather not follow Jon in bending the knee. Especially since in all the months he’s been gone, you just keep proving yourself so capable.”_

_“Is that you talking, or your uncle?” Lord Wyman was among those calling for her to be crowned._

_“Me, though I’d be lying if I said my uncle doesn’t feel the same way. He’s not alone in that.”_

_Sansa bows her head. “I couldn’t betray Jon. Even if I managed to forgive myself for it, Arya would never forgive me.”_

_“I think her tune is changing now that she’s seen this enemy. She’s been looking at you with new eyes all night. And if the voices for you to be crowned rise enough, well, you may not have much of a choice. I think she’ll understand that. And if she doesn’t… She’s free to leave your court and join up with Jon.”_

_Sansa closes her eyes and sighs. “You really think so?”_

_“I know so.”_

_She finds herself leaning against his arm, and if he has any aversion to this, he gives no sign. They make their way to the Heart Tree in the middle of the godswood. The only sounds are the whistling of the winds and the flickering of the torch flame._

_“I’ll be quiet while you pray,” he tells her, stepping back. He follows the Seven, like the rest of his formerly-southern family. Sansa smiles and kneels quickly, hoping for some clarity._

_She doesn’t want to betray Jon, she doesn’t want to even think on the possibility, but he left He left, he handed  the crown his people had given him to some foreign dragon woman, he’d nearly gotten himself killed by ignoring what Sansa told him about Cersei, his new queen unleashed an Ice Dragon and, quite frankly, Willam is right about her holding the safety of the North hostage._

_Jon is gone. He’s been gone for nearly a year and in all that time, she’s saved thousands by using Bran’s powers to predict attacks and evacuated areas beforehand. She’s faced down the Night’s King and his dragon herself and repelled them. She’s kept her people fed, clothed, and sheltered, kept the roads clear, the vassals united, the borders strong. She’s been queen in all but name, weathering and thriving in the worst possible circumstances, worse than any Jon ever dreamt up. She’s earned the trust, respect, and admiration of every lord between The Gift and Pinkmaiden. No one has done more to restore and protect House Stark and these people than Sansa._

_Surely, by now, she’s earned something for herself? What’s the use in wallowing over Jon, who has let that dragon woman seduce him?_

_The North could fall apart if they are forced to submit. And with the North goes all of Westeros. She may have so little time left._

_So she looks at handsome, sensitive, attentive Willam, with his fur-lined green velvet cloak and high-collared doublet. He holds out his hand to help her up, but once she’s on her feet, Sansa doesn’t release him. Instead, she yanks him towards her and kisses his lips. He tastes like spiced, mulled wine and melted snowflakes. The feel of his arms winding around her waist is warmer than her heaviest cloak. Their tongues dance together and before long, it’s like every inch of them is engaged in some form of dance. A frantic, confused dance of fingers running through hair, squeezes of flesh, lips and tongues brushing against skin, grasping, greedy hands._

_When she finally breaks away, gasping, she’s made up her mind, and asks Willam to join her in her chambers tomorrow evening. He nods, and they walk back to the castle in formal silence, as if nothing’s amiss. People are too drunk to notice their swollen lips and mussed hair._

_The next night, he brings a posey of winter roses and asks her what she would like. The question startles her, as it’s not exactly something she’s given much thought to._

_“To be honest, I don’t know what I would like, it’s never come up before,” she replies, already embarrassed by her lack of knowledge. She wraps her blue silk dressing gown around her more tightly._

_“How about I kiss you a bit, then disrobe, and we’ll go from there?”_

_She nods and he approaches her, smiling. He cups her cheek and strokes her hair as he kisses her lips. Heat comes off of him, and Sansa feels herself melt into his arms. He helps her from the solar to the bedchamber, kissing and stroking her all the way to the bed, where he urges her to sit. Willam backs away, smiling and begins to unlace his charcoal doublet. Sansa feels her insides dance, and they dance faster and harder with every inch of skin he exposes._

_He gets himself naked to the waist first, exposing a long, toned torso with just a dusting of brown hair around his nipples and at the center of his lower belly. When Sansa leans forward, he moves close, and she runs her hands down the plains of his chest and stomach. When she kisses the muscles of his belly, he gasps._

_Sansa’s fiddling with his belt before she even realizes it, her body seemingly possessed by this foreign hunger. She’s cupping his linen-encased hardness by the time she comes to her senses, and he’s bucking his hips._

_Curious, Sansa pauses and pulls her hand away, eliciting a sharp hiss from her lover. His yearning thrills her, and she places her hand there again, rubbing his hardness through his smallclothes._

_“Sansa…” He moans, “Please…”_

_She grabs the waist of both his open trousers and his smallclothes and pulls them down over his hips, freeing his cock. As he kicks off the garments, Sansa eyes his organ with some trepidation._

_She’s not seen many of these, but she remembers Ramsay’s cock. It was narrow and long, pink and kind of angry and starved-looking. Having him inside her always felt like being stabbed in the worst way. Willam’s is perhaps slightly shorter than Ramsay’s, but extremely thick, veined, and tan. Tentatively, she reaches for it and looks up at him as her hand closes around his shaft._

_“Do… Do you want me to suck on it?” She asks, half-fearing the answer. She is afraid to, but Ramsay loved it and she wants to make Willam happy._

_Her knight sort of whimpers, and chokes out, “Maybe another time, love. But I… not now. I want to make you feel good.”_

_“Well, then, I… please don’t use my backside, please! It hurts terribly!” She couldn’t defecate properly or painlessly for weeks after she escaped her husband._

_He cups her cheek tenderly. “Of course not. Just… just why don’t you lay back, love?”_

_She does, and he climbs atop her, reaching for the hem of her nightdress._

_A few seconds later, she arches her back in a sudden rush of sensation._

_“Gods, you’re so wet,” Willam remarks as his fingers explore her sex. She can feel it herself now, as his index and middle fingers find her nub. “So wet and slick for me, Sansa.”_

_He strokes and plays with her nub long enough to leave her gasping and near-senseless, on the precipice of something she can’t quite name. But then his fingers move downward, more between her thighs, to her entrance._

_“Tell me how it feels, love,” he murmurs, “I’m going to start putting my fingers in.”_

_She nods quickly, hoping for a sensation akin to the one he’d been giving her seconds before._

_It’s not quite like that, but it’s not unpleasant. He slips his index finger inside her, prodding her inner walls. Her breath catches at the unfamiliar feeling of invasion. The only times this part of her had been entered was when Ramsay was forcing himself on her. This wasn’t that pain. Just a curious arrival that makes her instinctively flex the muscles there._

_“Is that alright, Sansa darling?”_

_She nods._

_He warns her that he’s about to add another, and she agrees. The second finger is his middle finger, and it feels around._

_Then he does something odd: he curls both digits within her forwards and runs the tips along her front wall, as if searching for something. They press and prod until…_

_“Oh!” She yelps. He’s found it._

_He presses that spot within her a few more times until she’s shaking. Sansa reaches for his shoulders and opens her eyes._

_“Now, Willam,” she gasps, “I’m… I’m ready.”_

_She keeps gripping his shoulders as he parts her legs and gets into position. Sansa’s breath catches when she feels the tip of his cock prod her lower lips._

_“Ready?” He asks her again. She nods._

_He moans as he slides into her. Sansa hisses when she feels her walls stretch and expand around his girth. But it’s not exactly unpleasant, just unfamiliar. She finds herself instinctively moving her hips as he stills within her. She’s not sure how her body knows how to move, but it does, and before long, she’s patting his shoulder blade and urging him to move._

_And he does, at a slow pace that clearly forces a great deal of concentration from him._

_“Gods, Sansa, you’re so bloody tight!”_

_“Keep going,” she urges him, as she gets used to the sensation. Her hips moving to meet his thrusts and the sensation starts sending shoots of pleasure through her from her core. It feels less like an invasion and more like a joining, as if two pieces are being fit together. The pace and force builds slowly, and he grabs her sides, pulling her up and towards him as he moves to sit back. After a quick interruption, Sansa finds herself thrusting in his lap, chest against his. Willam burrows his head in her still-clothed bosom, making Sansa suddenly loathe her garments. Frantically, she rips off her dressing gown, then begins yanking at the laces on her nightgown until her bodice and sleeves drop limply down her shoulders and chest. Willam yanks her bodice down further so her breasts spill out and latches his mouth to her right nipple, then her left. Back and forth. It’s an utter delight._

_Sansa’s almost indignant when he removes his mouth and begins leaning back. Before she knows it, she’s riding him like he’s a horse, her breasts bouncing. His left hand grips her breast while his right goes between her legs. Smirking up at her, he begins toying with her nub as she rides him. Before long, his cock strikes that place within her that his fingers had found, and she completely loses control. Her eyes roll back as she takes a dive off that precipice, and she loses all her senses._

_When she comes down, her body still vibrating pleasantly, he urges her off of him and onto her back again. “I’m close,” he murmurs, climbing over her once more and gripping himself. He kisses her passionately and a few seconds later, groans against her mouth. She feels warm liquid spurt onto her thighs and belly in ribbons._

_Upon completion, Willam collapses next to her and turns onto his side, stroking her cheek fondly. “That was unbelievable, my love. You’re magnificent. If I wasn’t in love with you before, this will have certainly done it.”_

_She blushes and bites her lip, feeling both overwhelmed and a tad bewildered at the praise. “You seemed to do all the work.”_

_“Please,” he scoffs, “The way you moved your hips and rode me… Gods. You’re a natural.”_

For some reason, on this night, she doesn’t peak when she recalls doing so that first night with him. She’s on the edge, and she knows it, even as she recounts his sweetness after they finished.

Her mind searches for other encounters. The one when he took her in the bath. The night he took an unused paintbrush, wetted it, and pleasured her with the bristles. The times he’s licked every inch of her…

She imagines him kneeling before her, head between her legs, her hands threaded through his chestnut waves. She begs him, begs him for the very thing he’s all too willing to give. Then looks down to find the brown wavy hair is replaced by curls of a much darker hue. She yelps, making the man servicing her glance up briefly, showing dark brown eyes were green should be and the top of a close-cut beard.

“Jon?!” She gasps. And at that moment, she finally reaches her peak, exploding from within.

Sansa comes down, and panic sets in the moment her sense return. She turns onto her side, clutching the furs to her chest. No. _No._

This was supposed to never happen again. She was supposed to be finished with… with whatever that thing with Jon had been. It had been nothing more than a confused madness that was an aftershock of her time with Ramsay. Just a traumatic side-effect that came with being unable to trust any other men at the time. An illness she had _cured herself of, surely._

 _Willam. I love Willam._ And she does! She’s not confused. She _knows_ . She knows how she feels, and that she _should_ feel this way. So why has her mind betrayed her again? Jon… Jon betrayed her, let her down, failed her. And even if he’s not her brother, there’s no possibility for them. Willam is everything she could ever want. Jon is decidedly not. So why… How…?

 _It’s just a fluke,_ she tells herself, _just a delayed reaction to his confession the day Daenerys left, surely. Just pre-wedding nerves. It’s nothing._

_It’s nothing._

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Arya:

She’s slept in this room, in this bed, for a week now, beside her older sister. For the groom, it’s a security measure to guarantee his bride’s virtue. For everyone else, it’s to ensure her safety. By now, everyone in Winterfell knows Arya Stark’s blade is one of the deadliest in the Seven Kingdoms.

No one at Winterfell is particularly happy about this match, many of them harboring memories of the Ironborn raids on their lands. And even those who are aware that their queen has a scheme and voiced their (begrudging) support for this have been furious. Euron Greyjoy has been stopping short of openly pawing at Sansa in front of her court for a week now, and many don’t trust him not to ‘take his rights’ before the actual wedding night.

“This reminds me of when we were very small and shared a bed,” Sansa whispers, “Do you remember?”

“Yes. You used to bore me to sleep with your stories about fair maidens.”

“I didn’t just tell you romances,” Sansa protests, “I would tell you any and all stories you asked for, even if I didn’t like them.”

That’s true. Sansa usually managed at least one interesting tale a night. Arya turns over to face her sister. “Fair enough. You used to tell the scary ones Bran asked for as well. You would tell us that as long as we put our head under the covers, nothing could get us.”

“If only that were true,” Sansa remarks wistfully.

“If only. It’s almost funny, in a cruel way, how safe we used to believe we were. And how the only parts of the stories we thought were real were the triumphant ones. Bran’s stories turned out to be the most realistic.”

Sansa nods. “But we learned how to protect ourselves, at least. And each other.”

“I _will_ protect you,” Arya replies, clutching her sister’s shoulder, “I won’t fail this time, I promise.”

Sansa nods. “I know.”

The younger Stark can’t help but smile at this. That’s a triumph. After what happened…

She used to go to sleep reciting her kill list. Most of them are dead now. So instead, she counts. _Five hundred and thirty-four._

Two hundred and sixty-seven lost, two hundred and sixty-seven new enemy soldiers. Five hundred and thirty-four.

Sansa had never been good at figures. It was the one part of their lessons that she actually struggled with. She has people to do those figures for her now, but the way she whispered those particular numbers at Arya that day made the younger Stark suspect Sansa had counted and calculated that personally.

She did it while stitching up a small girl who had suffered a nasty gash to the back of her neck. Sansa had opened their mother’s jewel case right in front of the child, letting her play with the baubles as a distraction from the pain. Arya will never forget that, either. That little child, curly-topped and clutching their mother’s pearls in a fat fist, sobbing and trying to be brave.

Rietta was three, the baseborn child of a shepherd’s daughter and a man she’d never met. Her mother was one of those lost, because Arya decided to hang back for a fourth day to try and salvage more from Atranta.

She was told to return to Winterfell on the third day, but by sundown, she saw no sign of the enemy drawing near and figured her sister was just being overly cautious. So she told the men that they would stay a fourth to gather more. It’s not as if they could afford to just leave things behind, after all. Wasn’t Sansa always saying nothing could or should be wasted?

By mid-afternoon, Arya was smug, thinking of how much more she managed to accomplish by defying her sister’s instructions.

And then all of a sudden, there they were. Thousands of glowing blue eyes and rotted, moving limbs. They didn’t charge so much as flood the place. Like a dam breaking, all of a sudden they were drowning in an ocean of icy death.

Nothing could or should be wasted, so of course Sansa only sent them with enough wagons to carry three days’ worth of supplies at an adequate speed. They ended up having to toss much of what they gathered. And in the escape, two hundred and sixty-seven people, including Rietta’s mother, were lost.

\---No, five hundred and thirty-four people were lost. Every man, woman, and child in this war counts as two since their bodies are raised up to serve the Night’s King.

Those weren’t the only numbers Sansa quietly recited to Arya that day as she treated that child. In the panic to relieve the carts of some of their weight, they’d tossed about half their load. Meaning that about a third the amount of grain, leather, steel, cloth, livestock, and other supplies that was expected to be salvaged from Atranta was gone. In a distressingly gentle tone (for her young patient’s benefit, certainly not Arya’s), Sansa gave her the figures on how many people would probably freeze or starve to death now because of the diminished supply of food and clothing. Arya can’t bear to count those.

Once the girl was all stitched up, her grandfather fetched her, and Sansa waited until their footsteps died away to start screaming.

Not just about Atranta, but about Arya’s accusations when she found the letter. “You accused me of serving the Lannisters when you were Tywin Lannister’s cupbearer! You had three opportunities to kill him, and you used none of them! Robb and Mother might be alive! Rickon might be alive! But I was the traitor for trying to save our father’s life after he’d already signed his death warrant! Unlike me, you _knew_ what was happening, you _knew!_ And you killed some nobodies instead! And you called me a _traitor!_

“All I have done since I escaped is risk everything, _everything_ , to restore our family, our home, our _people!_ And what have you done, Arya? You, the supposedly _smart_ one! You called me stupid, and a traitor, you laid our father’s death at my feet! Over a piece of paper I was forced to write! While you were prancing about Braavos practicing your _dancing,_ I was being raped within these walls!

“And ever since you returned, instead of acting like a sister, you’ve behaved like a hornet. You threaten me! You fight me! You blackmail me! You threaten to destabilize the North, even to turn our lords against me because of a letter I wrote as a thirteen-year-old hostage! You never apologized for any of your cruelties, not once, no matter how much I tried to reach out to you! I gave you a mission, a mission to honor our family’s legacy by helping the very people we’re supposed to serve! I _trusted you_ with countless lives! I gave you a mission for the knight you always _dreamed of being!_ And deciding you knew better than your _stupid_ sister was more important than our people’s safety! Well, Arya, do you feel clever now? Do you? I suppose you’ve really shown me what a fool I am! Stupid Sansa, what does she know? You know better, don’t you? After all, you’re so good at getting people killed!”

She wasn’t even done. Her eyes became like slits. “You accused me of ‘helping’ the Lannisters kill Father? Well then, I accuse you of helping them butcher our mother, brother, and their people. The Red Wedding never would have happened if you’d killed Tywin Lannister. How many times did you serve him his dinner, Arya? Did he ever share any food with you? Any wine?”

At that point, Arya had been in tears. “ _Shut up!”_

“Oh, it seems I touched a nerve! You know, in my efforts to understand you better, I asked Gendry about your experiences together. He told me you would spend quite a bit of time in your employer’s chambers, far longer than a urchin cupbearer would be permitted to. He must have liked you a lot. You’re so _clever_ after all. Did you tell him about your _useless, idiot_ sister? About the father you honored so well? That whole time, he was planning the Red Wedding, you realize that, right?”

The worst part is that she’d guessed at so much. Tywin even said Arya reminded him of _Cersei._

_“How do you think father would feel about you now, Arya?! Do you think he’s proud of you? What have you done for him? Or Mother? Or Robb? Or anyone in our family, ever?!_

_“Is it that you don’t wear dresses? Is that it? You didn’t wear a dress when you served Tywin his wine, so it’s different! There’s more important things than what we wear, or how many opponents we can beat in the yard. The people of the North, our family is what matters. No one cares how different or clever you are! No one ever will! We are nothing without the people of the north! And you lost over five hundred of them! Because you had to be clever! Well, guess what? You’re the biggest idiot in The North! You create nothing, preserve nothing, you just take and waste! What are you good for, aside from death? You’re more fit to be a wight than a wolf!”_

Sansa had stopped then, covering her mouth, eyes widening. “I… I didn’t mean…”

Arya, suddenly too weary to lash out, just looked her in the eye. “Yes. You did.”

“No, I said that in anger, I---”

“---You still meant it. I hate you so much.”

Arya really did hate her sister at that moment. More than she’d ever hated Sansa before. Because she knew she deserved it.

They didn’t speak for a fortnight after that. Brienne served as intermediary. That included orders for Arya to stay away from council meetings and basically any sort of assignment. Everywhere Arya went, people watched her angrily and muttered under their breath. She was more of an outcast than she’d ever been before. Everyone knew what happened. Some of the commanders who had been under her for the Atranta mission were afraid of being blamed, so they made sure there was no doubt whose order it was that ruined everything.

Even her usual allies, like Brienne and Gendry, were distant. Brienne’s disappointment was palpable, while Gendry seemed to have little time or patience to console her. Sansa had put him in the forge, and he was constantly working. He blamed Arya as much as anyone, and told her outright that he didn’t have time to listen to her pity herself.

“I thought you might have grown up since the last time I saw you. But the dead are coming. I don’t have time to play nursemaid.”

Brienne would only tell her to apologize to her sister. When Arya recounted the awful things Sansa said to her, the Maid of Tarth seemed unfazed.

“She said a few things in anger. You’ve said worse to her, blackmailed her, and got hundreds of people killed.”

It was only then that Arya realized that it wasn’t that she hated Sansa. She hated herself. She found herself weeping in her sister’s arms that evening.

Sansa didn’t just get over it at once, of course. After a while, she assigned Arya work training the smallfolk in combat, but she remained fairly withdrawn. Moving on for everyone took time.

Enough time for Arya to fear she’d never truly fix things. That her sister would never trust her again.

So when Sansa came to her with the idea of this wedding, Arya was stunned. Stunned and overjoyed. She was being trusted again.

She can’t fail. She can’t fail Sansa, her family, the North. Not again. She just can’t.

“Sansa,” she asks, timidly, “Do you think that if I were to… make another mistake, Bran would have told us by now?”

With Atranta, as with all the evacuation missions, the information had been supplied by their greenseer brother: when and where the White Walkers would attack next. He had been  involved in mapping out the other details: how much time they had to get people out, if any  goods could be salvaged, the  best mode of transportation. But when Sansa proposed that Arya lead that particular mission, Bran said nothing about her botching it.

When Arya asked him why he didn’t warn them, he shrugged. “Nobody asked.”

This time, neither sister made the same mistake. But to Arya, Bran’s excuse always seemed rather limp. Her brother is so hard to read now, and some of the things he does make no sense to her. With all his supposed vision and knowledge, why couldn’t he just volunteer the information they need? Why hasn’t he told them more, sooner? Why did he wait for their sister to voice such specific inquiries before divulging such vital facts?

Sansa sits up in the darkness and looks down at Arya. “Yes, I do. Arya, now is not the time to be suspicious. We have to trust each other.”

“Because it worked out so well when you trusted me? Or Jon?” Arya asks, unsatisfied. “Or do you just want to trust him?”

Her sister cups her forehead. “What am I to do, then, if I can’t? Do you have any ideas, Arya? And if you do, why should I listen to them if I can’t trust anyone in this family?”

The younger Stark’s heart sinks. “I’m sorry, I just… I am just nervous.”

“You have every right to be.” Sansa lays back down again. “We’re all afraid. But what was it Father used to tell us?”

“It’s only when you’re afraid that you can truly be brave.”


	5. Fire with Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys plans to take King's Landing, and a Northern Wedding takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Fireandiceandrage for her beta-work!

Daenerys:

She’s back where she started. Almost completely, really. Except she doesn’t have the Reach, Dorne, or the Ironborn. Still, the odds are in her favor, Daenerys and Cersei both are without allies now and Daenerys’s forces still outnumber the other queen’s even without her dragons. 

But Cersei has the capital and with it, enough wildfire to destroy the entire city at any moment. She could kill them all and, according to her Lord Hand, Cersei would be willing to do that instead of surrender. 

“She has nothing to lose but the Iron Throne,” Tyrion Lannister laments.

“Her child,” Daenerys says, tapping her fingertips on the grand map table. She wonders if her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror ever dealt with something like this. “Your brother said Cersei is pregnant. The three of you are the last Lannisters left, your House is on the verge of dying out. This child will be her last, at her age. Do you think she’s willing to sacrifice her own legacy?”

“My sister never loved anything more than her children, that’s true,” Tyrion muses, “Perhaps…”

“She nearly murdered Tommen.”

Everyone looks to Varys, who sits directly across from his queen, hands folded.

“What?”

“At Blackwater. My little birds discovered that prior to the battle, she acquired a vial of Sweetsleep from Grand Maester Pycelle. One drop calms the nerves, two sends you to sleep, three and you never wake up.” Varys explains, “ If Lord Tyrion’s wildfire hadn’t delayed Stannis’s troops long enough for the Tyrells to arrive, King’s Landing would have fallen. At the end of the battle, Cersei was found atop the Iron Throne, clutching her younger son. The Sweetsleep vial was found among her things after she undressed that evening. She’s been prepared to make that sacrifice before.”

“I remember those days,” Tyrion says grimly, “But there is one thing you’re forgetting: we thought Stannis would kill us all. Joffrey and Tommen especially. If Stannis won, the life of every Lannister was forfeit, including Tommen’s. Perhaps if my sister believes that she and her child might be spared, her mind might change. Send a message to my sister. Tell her that if she surrenders peacefully, both she and her unborn babe will be shown mercy and placed under your protection. I am willing to assume custody of my niece or nephew.They can grow up at Casterly Rock, as a true Lannister. I’ll even take Cersei if she’s willing to spare the city.”

“My lord, with all due respect, my lord,” Varys says, “Your sister despises you. She still blames you for Joffrey’s death. She’ll likely see it as a trap and burn the city at once should we make such an offer. Her own family and allies have betrayed her, why would she trust her enemy? All that might do is warn and prompt her to destroy King’s Landing before we so much as make it to Blackwater Bay.”

“If she believes it may save her child, though… She’s still a mother.”

“I was a mother,” Daenerys says quietly, “And I sacrificed my unborn son to bring Drogo back.”

“You were hoodwinked by that witch, Your Grace!” Missandei protests. Dany shakes her head.

“I may have tried to convince myself that the horse was the sacrifice but deep down… I knew the truth. I still accepted.” Daenerys swallows. “And if she chooses to burn King’s Landing while our troops are sacking the city… all of our forces could be destroyed, along with the capital.”

She doesn’t say the rest. If Dany’s forces are destroyed, Westeros’s chances against the White Walkers would drop as well. Everyone exchanges glances, thinking the same thing. 

No one speaks of the North, not since the royal wedding was announced. No one speaks of the White Walkers, of Jon Snow, of House Stark, or Viserion. Daenerys finds that she’s too ashamed to look her people in the eye when such things are mentioned.

The worst part is the Starks have upheld their end of the agreement, in a way. While they haven’t sent any men to Daenerys’s cause, they’ve certainly helped it immensely. Save for her wildfire, Cersei has no army and no fleet thanks to Euron Greyjoy jilting her. But now there are three queens and while Sansa Stark has displayed no ambition towards the Iron Throne, she is claiming sovereignty of over half of Westeros and has technically allied herself with a faction that seeks to destroy Daenerys.

Daenerys tries to shake that from her mind and focus on the problem before her. “There’s only one solution I can think of.”

The crestfallen expressions on both of her chief advisors’ face summon up extreme resentment in her. She’s a  _ dragon,  _ for pity’s sake! What do they expect? 

And what else, exactly, is she supposed to do at this point? Ask Cersei nicely? Daenerys lost a dragon bringing Cersei Lannister a wight to get her to agree to a mere ceasefire and the woman couldn’t even honor that. Launch a ground offensive, marching her soldiers right into Cersei’s fire trap? 

People are going to die, almost certainly by fire, and the path to the least amount of casualties, as far as Daenerys can see, is mounting Drogon and Rhaegal and having them burn the Red Keep before Cersei can give an order.

“Your Grace, wildfire is highly volatile. If you attack with your dragons, you could end up burning the city yourself!” Tyrion protests. “Take it from someone who has personally weaponized it. All it would take is a single spark! You don’t fight fire with fire, Your Grace, you fight it with water!”

“You  _ literally set Blackwater Bay ablaze with wildfire!”  _ Daenerys reminds him. “What  _ water  _ was enough to quell that?”

This makes Tyrion lean back, clearly stumped. Missandei clears her throat.

“Your Grace, what if you simply don’t use the fire?”

“What?” That makes no sense.

“Your dragons can breathe fire, it’s true, but that’s not the extent of their abilities. They’re strong, massive, they’re fireproof, their scales are as hard as rocks, and they fly. Why not simply have them fly down and crush the buildings you need without burning them?”

This… this takes Daenerys aback. She literally never been in a situation where she hasn’t had at least one of them set something ablaze, but it’s not a terrible notion.

“Cersei might still see you coming and ignite the wildfire,” Varys mentions.

“Unless…”

Everyone looks at Missandei again. The herald blushes.

“Lord Varys is it possible you might still have a few of your ‘little birds’ in the capital?”

The Spider considers this. “It’s been a while since I’ve used them, but I was always good at establishing lasting loyalty. It wouldn’t be impossible to establish contact.”

“Well, what if we used them to steal the wildfire?”

“With all due respect, Lady Missandei,” Tyrion interjects, “We’re talking about one of the most volatile substances in the world. Transporting it anywhere is a long, delicate process, let alone transporting it in secret? And the massive quantities my sister still has…”

“Then we only steal some of it. Just enough to delay her from destroying the city before the queen takes it.If she does intend to burn the city, I doubt she’ll set the first blaze anywhere close to her person. We need only steal the wildfire she’s most likely to burn first. ”

“Most of my little birds are children, my lady,” Varys informs her.

“Who says they’d do it alone? It would be like when we took Meereen. Do you honestly think the people of King’s Landing want to burn alive? Cersei already destroyed the Sept, so they know she’s willing to do it. They fear her but the slaves feared the Masters as well. They watched their children be crucified.”

“Yes, but we made our demonstration before the revolt began,” Grey Worm says, “Khaleesi catapulted their collars over the walls. They’d all already heard about Astapor and Yunkai. They knew Khaleesi was a liberator. But here, they think us savages.”

“They’re fickle,” Tyrion mentions, “And anything they believe of our queen, they know Cersei to be capable of just as much, if not more. It’s possible, if we’re careful enough, that we might sway enough citizens to help us. But even if we do… that doesn’t mean we’ll manage to get the wildfire out without causing a disaster. There’s a reason only the top alchemists are permitted to handle it.”

“Do the top alchemists want to die by their own creation?” Daenerys asks, “You got them to surrender control of it to you before, didn’t you?”

“I was acting Hand, with the support of the crown and Lannister gold behind me. At the time, my sister was still somewhat restrained. That being said… they might be convinced. As you say, they don’t want to die by their own creation. But… it will take time. You’ll have to be patient, Your Grace.”

Daenerys does not appreciate the condescending look or tone her Hand adopts. She narrows her eyes. “I am more than capable of patience, my lord,” she says coldly, “your continued presence on this council is evidence enough of that.”

Lannister clears his throat. “Of course. And since this will be a gradual process, in the meantime, perhaps we should start planning for… beyond this conflict? Have… have you given any thought to how you intend to handle House Stark once Cersei is vanquished?”

The Queen and her Hand lock eyes.

“I intend to fly North with my dragons and remind the so-called Queen of Winter of what I am capable of.”

Tyrion cringes. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I feel I must in turn remind you of what she is capable of. Her castle defenses have proven successful in repelling dragons, and with Euron Greyjoy and the Golden Company, she’ll be stronger than ever. Perhaps it might suit you better if you were to return as an ally? At least until the White Walkers are vanquished?”

“I  _ was  _ their ally! And they repaid me with-”

“You abandoned them.”

Once again, every eye in the room shoots towards Missandei. Daenerys looks at her herald, her greatest friend, in shock. The blood drains from both women’s faces.

“E-excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but- when Jon Snow came to our shores, I spoke on your behalf, I told him of your great deeds, how you are our queen not because of who your father was, but because we choose to follow you.. I assured him that if I asked, you’d send me on a ship back to Naath at a moment’s notice. That you love and respect your people and their will and that is why we serve you. That is the queen I spoke of, the queen I promised. The North has spoken as well. They named Jon Snow their king. He bent the knee in exchange for your support against this enemy. You promised this. 

“Then you left and the North spoke again, naming Jon Snow’s sister their new queen. You left them, and you still expect them to follow, not because of what they want or need, but because your father sat the throne you seek. You left them to contend with the Ice Dragon raised from one of your children. And, well… what of your other allies? The Sands, the Greyjoys? You haven’t tried to retrieve them. You made promises to Yara Greyjoy, and she did as you asked, but once she was captured you did nothing, even when her brother returned asking for help. 

“The Starks have helped you in your conflict against Cersei, they have. Jon Snow risked his life getting you that wight for your ceasefire. And we all need to defeat the White Walkers. If the North falls, so do we. Winterfell is filled with and surrounded by refugees, many of them displaced because of Viserion-”

Daenerys looks away briefly, ashamed.

“-and they still welcomed us, because you swore to save them. But you still left. Your Grace, if you intend to threaten burning Winterfell, why even bother trying to spare King’s Landing?Why should anyone in Westeros believe you’re not the tyrant Cersei claims you are? How would you not be? Winterfell is one of the last remaining Northern strongholds holding the Night’s King at bay. If it’s lost, your dragons might not even be enough to stop them. They’ve already killed one, after all. I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I spent years negotiating transactions for the Masters of Astapor, and I can tell you that you’ve not upheld your end of the contract. The North can’t ‘repay’ you with anything when you haven’t paid in the first place. You promised that you flew North to save it, not conquer it. I promised Jon Snow that you weren’t a tyrant, if you were to make war with the North now… I’d be a liar.”

The Dragon Queen feels her heart shatter.  _ Three betrayals you shall know…  _ How can Missandei say such things? Missandei, who was there when Daenerys sacked Astapor and liberated her? If Daenerys hadn’t ‘broken her contract’ with Missandei’s master, the girl would still be in chains! Tyrant? Her?

Everyone is silent. Daenerys looks down at the surface of the table. “I have been honest with you all from the very beginning what my goals are,” she says quietly, “I have always listened to you all, even when I disagreed. If I cannot even keep my ancestral kingdom intact, how am I to keep anything else? The Starks have now taken the support of the Iron Bank, which wishes to destroy me and put my people back in bondage. And you want me to just accept that? I am a dragon, not a mouse.”

“Your Grace-” Varys says.

“Enough!” Daenerys snaps, “Leave me! All of you!”

She leaves no question in her tone that they are to obey. Meekly, her advisors file out, and Daenerys rises from her seat to look out the window. The grey ocean churns and rages as snow falls. Thunder crashes. Aegon and his sisters once looked out the same window onto Westeros, planning their conquest. 

They never hesitated.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

He’s silent as his manservant, Satin, enters his chambers with fresh water and a small posey of blue roses. He’s silent as Satin dresses him in his formal wedding wear -grey silk patterned with snowflakes and a high, white collar. He places the blue rose posey in his button-hole himself, and only speaks once he’s completely groomed and dressed.

“Time to greet the bride,” he says, voice raspy. Ghost greets him at the door to Sansa’s chambers, but Jon doesn’t even have a smile for his wolf. It takes Arya throwing her arms around his neck  once he crosses the threshold to get him to warm up a bit.

“Don’t you dare mock me!” His sister warns as she steps back, giving Jon a proper look at her own garb. She’s in shimmering grey velvet trimmed with white satin and sashed with Tully blue. Jon hasn’t seen her in a dress since she left for King’s Landing, and it’s hard to suppress a laugh. “I mean it, Jon!” 

“It wouldn’t be so funny if you didn’t act so put out about it,” Jon tells her, “You look lovely, little sister, there’s no reason to be so sour. You’re just inviting japes with that attitude.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Gendry will laugh at me.”

“Then punch him in the face.” His sister has far greater things to occupy her mind. “Aside from the gown, how are you? Are you, er, ready?”

Arya glances around. There are a couple attendants milling about. “I suppose so.” Her voice carries a warning.  _ Careful what you say.  _

Jon considers his next words. There’s nothing about this scheme he particularly likes, but Arya’s role in it is especially upsetting. “I wish Sansa weren’t sending you away for so long.”

“Me too,” his sister replies, “It may not be long, depending how we fare in the war but I want to serve the North. Especially after Atranta.”

Jon frowns. “Yes… I suppose. I’ll still miss you. I feel like we’ve barely had any time together since I returned home.”

Arya sighs. “Not enough, certainly, there’s never enough time during winter.”

He nods solemnly, then looks over at the closed door across from the hall entrance. “Sansa is still getting dressed?”

“Aye. You wish to speak to her?”

Jon nods and his sister knocks and announces him. Cecily comes to the door and escorts him in.

He stops right before the shutting door, nearly knocking Arya over in the process.

Sansa sits at her dressing table, and he can see her reflection in the mirror.. Her hair is carefully woven into a collection of plaits brought together to form one large braid that winds down her neck and over one shoulder. Atop her head is the white-gold diadem her groom gifted her. A single teardrop pearl hangs from her neck by a silver chain so fine it’s barely visible. 

Her gown appears simple at first, white silk with a high collar and rabbit’s fur bell cuffs, but when it shimmers and flashes silver and blue, Jon realizes the fabric is threaded with the icy colors to appear finer than silk.

Jon feels like he’s face-to-face with an actual star. Sansa’s been the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen for quite a while, but she’s officially outdone herself. He’s speechless.

She catches his eye through the mirror and blushes. “Good morning, dear brother.. You look handsome.”

_ I look handsome.  _ Jon turns the color of a tomato and glances at his feet. “Thank you. I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re exquisite.”

“I guessed as much, but I still like hearing it.” She glances down at the table briefly. “Does anyone know if Bran is ready?”

Jon and Arya exchange looks, but Cecily clears her throat. “A page arrived just before Lord Jon did, Your Grace. Prince Brandon shall be joining you in a few minutes.”

“Wonderful. It’s imperative that we keep to our schedule.”

_ No kidding.  _

Sansa rises from her seat and gestures towards the partition in the corner, from which a large garments of silk and fur hangs. “My maiden’s cloak.”

Her attendants brings it to her, and she models it for them. There are Stark wolves and Tully trout stitched into the borders of the fabric, the fur is silver, and the chain is studded with pearls. The young queen twirls in it. “What do you think? I only just finished it last night.”

“I remember.” Arya remarks with an exaggerated yawn. Jon’s hands curl into fists. 

He knows he shouldn’t feel envy for Euron Greyjoy, but his rational mind always seems to flee whenever Sansa is involved. 

_ Even if she wasn’t marrying Euron, she wouldn’t be marrying you,  _ Jon reminds himself. He wonders, vaguely, where Willam Manderly is at the moment. At least he’ll have company in his misery today… not that the knight will show it. The man has seemed disturbingly composed this entire week, as if the love of his life wasn’t preparing to wed a stinking pirate.

He’s had to  _ watch her  _ with that vile, lecherous, duplicitous, greedy squid for a week now. It’s been driving him mad. Three different times this week, Arya’s had to grab his wrist to keep him from attacking the groom. And now he must literally give her to that knave once and for all. 

Before that, he was watching her with Manderly with eyes reborn by the knowledge of their true attachment. They were never too overt - both of them were too clever for that. But once he  _ knew,  _ it was impossible not to see. 

At least with Euron, Jon could tell her smiles and giggles are disingenuous. Manderly is another story. They speak at length on a variety of subjects - defensive strategy, trade, foreign lands, music, old legends - in a way that Jon’s never managed with her. The man can seize her attention with a single smile or turn of phrase.

He wonders if Euron has noticed anything.

Bran arrives and the servants are dismissed briefly as they talk through the plan once more. . After that, they take breakfast together in the solar, everyone careful to make sure they don’t get gravy on their finery.

The blood pounds in Jon’s ears as the midday hour draws near. He can barely breathe when Cecily announces that the time has come. His arm shakes as he offers it to the bride.

Never has he seen the godswood so crowded. He feels like it’s been invaded by these Ironborn brutes. The air is crisp, but the sun is bright and the freshly-fallen snow sparkles. Bran takes  his place near the Heart Tree and Arya takes Sansa’s train.

“You’re more nervous than I am,” Sansa whispers as they walk the first stretch, “I wish I could help.”

“So do I,” Jon replies, trying not to glare at every Ironborn face they pass. “But I suspect it’s too late to stop you from marrying him.”

“It is, I’m afraid.” They turn the corner to face the Heart Tree and the groom.

Euron Greyjoy, the golden kraken emblazoned on his chest and black furs hugging his shoulders, grins upon seeing his bride. Jon wants to rip his face off.

“Who comes before the Gods?”

_ Your death, Greyjoy,  _ he wants to shout. He almost does, hesitating before announcing himself and Sansa. His hands tremble as he helps her remove her cloak, and he kisses her cheek as he undoes the clasp. Bile rises in his throat as the Iron King drapes his own colors upon Sansa’s slender shoulders. 

At the very least, he is able to stay by her side for most of the feast, more than once shooting his new - good-brother? good-cousin?-  _ kinsman  _ nasty glares when the man’s hands wander beneath the table. The dancing begins and Jon keeps swallowing vomit. Euron seems to enjoy dancing as much as his bride, enthusiastically swinging her about the floor to the lively Northern reels.

Jon finds himself drifting from the high table as the dancing continues. He spots Willam Manderly, drinking, supporting the wall, and ignoring the hopeful stares of the court maidens, and makes his way over. Neither man says a word as Jon leans back against the wall, their eyes locked on the new couple as they spin about the Great Hall.

Finally, when a more gentle tune begins, Jon speaks. “How have you been handling this week?”

“Thoughtfully. The only thing that has maintained my composure is the knowledge of how important it is.”

Jon is surprised by the honesty of this answer. “My sister has had to assist me a bit these last few days.”

“I’m sure.” Manderly takes a long sip and glowers at the dancers over the rim of his cup. “You’ve had your sister, I’ve had ale.”

The former king snorts. Gods, he wishes they could be friends. “How will you be distracting yourself during the consummation, may I ask?”

“Dreaming up creative ways for Greyjoy to die. You?”

“The same, more or less.”

The two share knowing looks. 

“Watch your sister,” Ser Willam warns, “make sure she doesn’t get too wrapped up in that blacksmith she’s dancing with.”

Jon has barely been paying any attention to Arya, but sure enough his scrappy, messy, fierce little sister is on the arm of Robert Baratheon’s bastard son.  Gendry is two left feet, possessing none of the precision or grace on the dance floor that he displays in the forge. Arya has no elegance of her own, but she makes up for it in spirit. 

“I will, but I’m sure it will be unnecessary. Arya won’t falter.”

“You’re more sure of that than I am.” Manderly says grimly, “You weren’t there for Atranta.”

Jon bristles, irritated on his sister’s behalf. “She’s a good, remarkable young woman. She made a mistake. She learned from it.”

“And took her time doing so.” Manderly empties his cup. “But I trust Sansa’s judgment.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

His hands clasp her tightly as they turn about the floor, his eyes locked on her. She’s exhausted. Exhausted from the exercise, from the deafening music, from the salty smell that wafts off of him, from all the pretense. She’s always loved dancing, but she’s not been able to enjoy a minute of this, with this partner.

She eyes her flowing skirts and the heavy-laden platters and can’t help but think of all the things such resources could be used for instead of this show. Euron’s ego is utterly ravenous, and nothing less than the best shall do to satiate him.

He likes that the proud men and women of the North have to feed him, play for him, smile at him, dance for him as he claims their queen. It likely feels as satisfying to him as any military victory.

Having his niece and nephew here to watch is likely just icing on the cake. Theon and Yara are seated at the end of the high table, Yara glaring and Theon on the verge of tears. Euron knows of his nephew’s connection to this place, to  _ her _ , and he revels in the anguish of it all.

Sansa’s feet feel like they’re about to bleed, but she resists the urge to ask for a break. The sooner she shows weariness, the sooner Euron will expect to retire. And she can’t make herself look forward to that. 

Eventually her body betrays her, and she begins to make missteps and trip. Euron clicks his tongue with false sympathy and escorts her from the floor back to the high table. Sansa’s heart pounds and she steals glances towards Brienne, Arya, Jon, Willam, and the Kingslayer.

“My poor, sweet bride,” her groom purs, “I hope I haven’t worn you out already.”

“Of course not,” Sansa replies sweetly, “just my feet. I only need some refreshment, and I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

They take their customary places and Euron fills the bridal chalice almost to the brim. Feeling his intent, Sansa downs about half of the Dornish Red. He smirks.

“You’re far more spirited than I expected.”

“I’m a daughter of the North,” Sansa responds, “spirit is what gets us through the winter.”

“Still, my nephew prepared me for a far more delicate soul.”

“We were practically raised as siblings,” she says, “he’s protective of me.”

“Indeed. Somehow, though, I suspect you neither want nor need anyone’s protection.”

Despite herself, she appreciates this statement. “Whether I do or not, it changes nothing. There are those who will protect me nonetheless, and I am lucky to have them.”

“Well, you have me now, my lady. And nothing can protect you from the Iron King.”

_ We’ll see.  _ She puts on a sultry smile. “Wonderful.”

Euron calls for more wine. About half an hour passes before he grips her hand and leans over. “Feeling sufficiently  _ refreshed,  _ wife?”

She smirks. “I think so.”

They’ve agreed beforehand that there will be no traditional bedding ceremony, but that doesn’t stop Euron from standing, raising his cup, and calling for silence.

“My lords, my ladies, thank you for joining the queen and I on this wonderful day, when our two great kingdoms are joined together! Please continue to eat, drink, and make merry. Unfortunately, Her Grace and I must leave you all now to secure our alliance!”

The Ironborn erupt in cheers, raising their cups and shouting things like, “Time to make winter come!” and “Give her the Iron Kraken!” Sansa finds herself seized and yanked into a big, intrusive, salt-flavored kiss before all of the court. When he finally releases her, she hopes Arya is near Jon to hold him back.

Euron actually bows to the cheers before sweeping her into his arms. Out of sorts, Sansa clings to the folds of his doublet as he carries her from the hall.

“Tearing off my clothes already, love?” He asks, leering, “Wait until we make it to the chamber, at least.”

Sansa doesn’t want to be afraid, but she is. She loathes herself as she cries, “Don’t drop me!”

“Oh, I promise, I’m keeping a tight grip on you,” he says, giving her backside a squeeze to emphasize his point.

He nips at her neck and pants like a dog as he climbs the stairs, and it’s all Sansa can do to keep from retching. She prays.  _ Gods, please, don’t let this happen… _

If it does, she’ll only have herself to blame. She engineered this match, and everything is hinging on Arya, who has proven herself untrustworthy. Sansa rails at herself for being so helpless.

Euron kicks open the solar door, then the one to the bedchamber, and Sansa finds herself flashing back to her last wedding night. That horrible, awful night. She swallows the bile gathering in her throat and reminds herself who she is.

“My love,” she says, “p-perhaps I might be up for another dance.”

He chuckles. “Oh, there’s no going back down to the hall now, sweetling. You’re all mine now.”

“Not that sort of dance. You’ll like this, I promise.” She closes her eyes briefly, then pats him on the shoulder. “Put me down.”

Reluctantly, he lets her slip from his arms. Not breaking contact, Sansa presses the flat of her hand on his chest and pushes him backward towards a chair. “Take a seat, my lord husband. You must be thirsty from carrying me up all those steps.”

“I know a better way to quench that than wine.” He licks his lips. Sansa throws her head back and laughs.

“Patience, darling, I promise it will be worth your while.”

She goes to her drink stand, pours two cups, fiddles with her signet ring, then downs hers before bringing Euron his. He takes a sip and watches her lustfully from over the brim. Sansa backs away, heart racing.

Hands trembling, she unclasps her bridal cloak and sways her hips. “I don’t have much experience with these things, you know,” she purrs, “But I do like to eavesdrop on the conversations my maids have. Some of them are refugees, you know, and before they came here, they apparently gained quite a bit of experience. There are some things I’d like to try.”

“Oh?” His voice gets a little less steady as Sansa reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown. She makes a show of pulling the ribbons through the holes with long, languid gestures and turns a few times so he can see what she’s doing.

“Indeed. Now that I have someone I truly want, someone who can make me forget the past. I hope you’re up to the challenge, Your Grace.” With the laces undone  she slowly pulls the gown down her shoulders.

“I’ve yet to face a challenge I couldn’t conquer, my lady.”

“Oh! I just  _ knew  _ I made the right choice!” She cries out and pulls her arms from the sleeves. Her heart quickens as her wedding gown pools at her feet. Swallowing, she caresses the tops of her breasts. “What do you think of my bosom, Your Grace? I worry sometimes that they’re not big enough. The Dragon Queen’s breasts are bigger. I fear that if I let you make a salt wife of her, you’ll completely abandon my bed for hers.”

“I saw her teats. They’re fine now, but they’ll be sagging to her knees before long. Between those udders and that silver hair, she’ll look like a right old hag in ten years. You, on the other hand… You’re perfect. Built to last. I love yours. Come here and let me prove it.”

Her skin crawls, but she strides over and lets him take her into his lap. He goes at the front lacings of her corset with his teeth and Sansa forces her cries of disgust to sound like moans. His beard scratches at her flesh, his nose is cold, his kisses sloppy. She’d hoped if things got this far that she’d be able to just close her eyes and imagine Willam, but she can’t. He’s not Willam. He smells like salt and rotted fish. She can’t take it anymore.

So, when her corset is nearly completely undone, she jerks away.

Euron grunts in indignation. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“South.”

“South?”

“South.”

Trying not to gag, she slips from his lap, kneels before him, and forces his knees apart. 

His face splits into an immense grin. “Oh, gods, you lovely, dirty, b----hhhhrk!”

Sansa moves away, crawling backwards from her husband as he spasms in his chair, hands grasping at his now-gushing chest. The end of Arya’s blade protrudes from his left side. Just for good measure, her sister twists the blade. Once, twice, three times.

Blue eyes gaping, Euron wheezes and looks up at the smirking, younger Stark, then at his wife.

“You… fucking… bitches…” He gasps. Then he grins, and his hands close around the end of the blade. He forces it back, shoving the hilt right into the center of Arya’s ribs, catching her by surprise and forcing her backwards. Euron stumbles from his chair, yanking a dirk from his belt, and begins crawling towards Sansa, eyes murderous. “Take… you… too…”

She scrambles from him and he’s suddenly yanked away by the back of his collar and flipped onto his back. Smirking, Jaime Lannister stands and presses his foot down to the center of Euron’s chest. 

“See what I managed with just one working hand?” He sneers. 

Euron looks at Sansa again. “You’ll… never… have… the fleet… now…”

“If only you could live to see how wrong you are.” Arya announces, rubbing her chest gingerly.

Brienne descends upon Sansa, covering her with her cloak. “Are you alright, Your Grace?”

Sansa gets to her feet, shaking and clinging to her guard, eyes fixed on Euron as he bleeds out. It’s only when she sees the last of his life drain from his face that she turns into Brienne’s chest.

“What are you crying for?” Arya demands. “It worked. He’s dead.”

“Would you shut up for once in your bloody life?!”

Willam’s voice is like a song. Sansa looks up to see him standing in the doorway, scowling, Jon right behind him. Arya gets to her knees beside the corpse and unsheathes her valyrian dagger while nudging Jaime Lannister’s leg aside. Sansa shudders.

“I don’t want to watch,” she cries, miserable. She feels dirty, filthy. 

“You don’t have to, sweetling.” Willam says, walking over and reaching for her. “Come now.”

Sansa lets him lead her from the bedchamber. Jon, Willam, and Brienne huddle about her as she sits by the fire, clutching the cloak to her.

“He didn’t-”

“No.” Sansa says firmly, “He touched me, but not in any way I didn’t permit. I had to keep him distracted,” she adds with an apologetic look to Willam, “so he wouldn’t see Arya coming.”

“Oy!” Her sister shouts from the bedchamber, “Would one of you care to help, please? You’re here for that, not for clucking over my sister like a bunch of hens!”

“Brienne, go,” Sansa bids. Reluctantly, the guard does as asked. Willam and Jon draw in closer.

“It was awful,” she confesses, “in my head, I kept returning to the nights with Ramsay. Like it was happening all over again. Even though I knew better, I couldn’t help it. I was so afraid that Arya wouldn’t come and I’d have to…”

“It’s alright now,” Jon says gently, “she came. It’s done. He’s dead. Ramsay’s dead. They’re both dead and gone and can’t touch you now. You’re safe.”

He reaches for her hand but she jerks it away instinctively. 

“I’m sorry, I just… I don’t want to be touched right now.” She sobs. “It’s so stupid! He didn’t even really  _ do  _ anything! And it was all going according to plan. My plan! He wasn’t rough or forceful-”

“I beg to differ,” Jon and Willam say in unison. 

“That kiss-”

“Grabbing you and carrying you out-”

“That announcement-”

“-and he’s been pawing at you all week.”

“It’s not stupid,” Willam insists, “after what Ramsay put you through? You’re so brave, darling.”

Sansa hiccups. “You’re not angry with me?”

“No!” He looks horrified at the very idea. “Of course not!”

She shakes her head and looks at her lap. “I still feel stupid. This is  _ nothing  _ to what I’m asking of Arya-”

“I agreed to that!” Her sister calls out again, “But not to handling this corpse with only three extra hands! Jon, will you please get in here?”

Very reluctantly, Jon walks into the bedchamber, leaving Sansa alone with Willam. 

Feeling some relief at not having his eyes on them, Sansa reaches out and clutches Willam’s cheek. He leans into her palm, closing his eyes.

“You’re the very best of men,” she whispers, “I love you.”

“I love you. And it’s okay now. It’s done. You’re safe. We’re all here for you.”

“I know,” she murmurs, “I know.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Yara:

She and Theon were given comfortable bedchambers with an adjoining solar within Winterfell’s walls. It’s in this solar that they take their breakfast.

Or, in this case, try to.

The Stark sisters sit on the other side of the table, proud as gold, as a breakfast of eggs and sausage steams in front of them. The younger looking smug, the elder looking annoyed.

“Alright, Arya, you’ve made your point now could you  _ please  _ put that ghastly thing away?” The Queen in the North asks, “I didn’t even like looking at it when it was attached to its owner. We’re trying to eat.”

“It won’t fit in my pockets, so where do you propose I put it?”

“In your lap, under the table.”

Yara sits, shocked still as the daughters of the North argue over the disembodied face of her uncle as if it was a pet salamander. Arya Stark scowls, but does as her sister bids.

The queen then meets Yara’s eyes. “Apologies for all the confusion, but to get both of you back safely, secrecy was required, and I didn’t exactly have the means to communicate with you under Euron’s nose. I also apologize for my sister’s manners, which, I’m afraid, you’ll have to get used to, as you’ll be sailing with her for the foreseeable future.”

Yara blinks several times, then looks to her brother, who stares, equally mystified.

It takes a few minutes for Yara to put things together. She’s heard of this sort of art before. The House of Black and White in Braavos is famous, but she’s never heard of their assassins breaking ranks.

“You intend for your sister to be King of the Iron Islands. To masquerade as my uncle for… how long?”

“As long as necessary,” Sansa Stark replies primly, cutting up her sausage. 

“But… but Euron commands the Iron Fleet,” Theon interjects, face white, “Even if she does manage to fool everyone, does she even know how to command a ship? Let alone a fleet?”

“No, but that’s what we have your sister for,” Arya replies, shrugging and loading eggs onto her fork “ I assure you, I  _ can  _ fool everyone for as long as I wish.”

“Just pretend to reconcile with your dear ‘Uncle Euron’ here, and when he meets his unfortunate, valiant end in battle and the war is won, the Iron Islands are yours,” the Queen in the North explains, “It’s not as if I’m going to give him a son.”

Yara’s eyes fix upon the spot on the tabletop under which her uncle’s face lays. “How did he die?”

“I stabbed him in the chest. We taunted him as he bled out.”

The feeling begins to return to her face, and Yara finds herself grinning madly. “Well then, it seems we have a bargain.”


	6. Ale, Cake Batter, and Cold Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya have a heartfelt goodbye, Willam oversteps, and Tyrion scrambles to handle his queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys (had a VERY tumultuous month).
> 
> Thanks to the incomparable mangomar!

Jon:

They have their proper goodbye in the privacy of Arya’s chambers. When she actually departs, it’ll be wearing Euron Greyjoy’s face, speaking in his voice. 

The awkwardness of that is beyond what he ever anticipated. He had never seen Arya in action before Sansa’s wedding; his little sister not only possessed her target’s face, but their person entirely. The morning after the wedding, “Euron” swaggered out to his men, proud as a peacock, declaring that Winter had truly come, that the North was conquered indeed, and all the other obvious, disrespectful jokes. She inhabited his persona so well that Jon almost suspected that the actual, bloody events of the wedding night were a dream. 

It frightens him, really. As did watching Arya so calmly deface and scalp a corpse. The way she nonchalantly rinsed the blood from her fingers with a the basin on Sansa’s dressing table with the boredom of someone for whom blood may as well be dirt caught under a fingernail. 

Jon can’t be sure just how many deaths she’s seen, how many she’s caused. He doesn’t need to. The number is inconsequential, the answer the same: too many. She’d been a skinny, sassy little girl trying to train her wolf pup and chattering with delight over the skinny little blade he’d given her when they departed. Now?

She’s got the eyes and nerves that one usually sees from the eldest, most battle hardened warriors. The men old enough to have fought in Robert’s Rebellion, even the War of the Ninepenny Kings in some cases. The same that Sansa has. That he has. The eyes that look so alien and misplaced on a young face. And Arya’s the youngest of them.

The Stark sisters were always so different, but one of the things they definitely have in common is their reticence to disclose the details of their various traumas. 

That bothers him as well.

They both down tankards of ale in front of the fire. Unlike Sansa, Arya doesn’t so much as sniff as she imbibes the bitter liquid. Granted, the ale here is far better than the fare at Castle Black was, but another awkward development in the world of Arya Stark was how readily she seemed to be able to put away basically anything, and vast amounts of it. 

Sandor Clegane, of all people, seemed to have at some point struck up an odd friendship of sorts with both Stark sisters.  He and Arya were practically bosom companions and drank together often and enthusiastically, though he tended to keep an oddly longing distance from Sansa which painfully echoed Jon’s own,

Another of her regular companions was Gendry the blacksmith, Robert Baratheon’s bastard. Jon likes Gendry immensely, and of Arya’s two new companions, it’s the relationship that Jon’s more comfortable with. Gendry, to Jon’s knowledge, has never killed any children. Things became a little less appealing once Jon learned the nature of their relationship.

When he voiced those concerns, Arya promptly told him it was none of his business and that she could take care of herself. Jon could not fault her logic on the latter point; so that conversation ended there. But as for the former, well… 

He’s kept quiet on this up until now. But if he doesn’t say it before she leaves, he’ll never forgive himself. He just brings this matter up in the context of discussing her upcoming mission, rather than her love life.

“I cannot help but worry for you, Arya. Please don’t roll your eyes at me,” he tells her, catching the look on her face. “You have to understand. Things are… complicated, for me. I lost Rickon. Bran is barely Bran anymore and with Sansa-”

“She hasn’t betrayed you,” Arya snaps, “and if I know that, you have no excuse to claim any different.”

He gapes. “I know that! I assure you, that’s not what I meant, but I cannot deny something has changed between us.” He hesitates. “I don’t see her as I once did, alright? I haven’t seen her with the eyes of a brother since we were reunited.”

Arya blanches. “You-”

“That’s not the point,” Jon says impatiently, “this isn’t about her. This is about you. You’re my little sister. I’m your big brother. Plain as that. I always have been. I always will be. Through everything that’s been the case. Alive, dead, alive again. Bastard. Lord Commander. King. Whatever I am now. Watchman, possible turncloak. Hero, failure. Snow, Targaryen, Stark. I have always, always been Arya Stark’s older brother. It’s the one thing I’ve held to all this time. Always, even if you spend years as Euron Greyjoy, even when you become whomever’s face you’ve worn, you’re my little sister.”

Her face softens, and a sad smile creeps across her face. “I know that, stupid.” She bends over the armrest of her chair and holds up Needle. “Why do you think I still have this? It was stolen from me at one point, you know. I hunted it down and killed the man who took it from me. When I entered the House of Black and White, I was determined to become No One. I was told to shed everything. My clothes. My silver. My memories. My attachments. My name. My loyalty. And there were times I thought I might. I was so close. I endured weeks on the streets, blind and begging. I dropped everything I carried with me since King’s Landing into the Braavosi canals. Except this. I kept telling myself that I would. That today or tomorrow would be the day I took this thing out of its hiding place and drop it to the bottom along with everything else. But I couldn’t.”

She pauses to turn the little blade over in her hands. The firelight glints off of it. “You had it made like this to be skinny, like me. To be weightless enough for me. What was it you said? It wouldn’t skewer a man, but it would poke him full of holes if I was fast enough. When I got my first proper lessons with Syrio Florel, he gave me wooden practice blades that weighed a ton. I complained, but he said the blades were not too heavy, I was just too weak to wield them. I would have to grow and improve, not them. And I did. I have. I’m Princess of Winter, now. I have a Valyrian Steel dagger and I can have the finest sword imaginable made for me. Ones thick and strong enough to skewer a man. I’m strong enough to wield them now, just as Syrio said I’d be. A proper broadsword, fit not for a skinny little girl, but for a princess meant to combat monsters. Maybe I will get one. But Needle?” She looks up at him. “Needle isn’t just a sword. It isn’t just a means to draw blood. A pointy end to poke a man full of holes. It’s my big brother, the first person willing to let me try at something other than being a lady. It’s your smile, the hug you gave me the day we said goodbye. I’ll have this thing on my belt until my death. I’ll toss aside a hundred fine broadswords before I lose Needle.”

She flinches slightly. “The… the Sansa thing… A subject for another day at most. It’s between the two of you. I leave on the morrow. I don’t have time for any of it. You’re my older brother. I love you. And none of that, nothing there will change. Dragons have risen again, the Night’s King has marched upon Westeros once more, The Wall has fallen. I’ve gained a half-dozen faces. Whatever, whomever I have become, whatever I shall become in the future, my first real step down that journey was when my big brother gave me my first blade. I am your little sister, everything starts there. It’s what I’ll be forever.”

Arya puts her blade aside and Jon puts his tankard aside just in time to catch her when she throws herself into his arms, just as she did all those years ago.

~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

In the brown surface of the tea she can see her reflection and the hesitant look in her eyes. She takes a deep breath, considering sacrifices and possibilities, and downs the contents of her morning cup.

Wormwood, mint, pennyroyal, and tansy. Not the most appetizing combination, but necessary.

As queen, she decreed that such herbs would have their place within the glass gardens. Indeed, one of her major mandates even before she was crowned was putting a careful system in place regarding the production and growth of crops. On their own, of course, each of the ingredients in her tea had other medicinal uses. But as queen, she addressed the matter head on.

Ladies weren’t, in theory, supposed to know of such things. Moon Tea was the sort of things future fishwives discreetly sought out from the local wise woman when she was in a spot of trouble. Society had decided that those were the only circumstances that would be vaguely acknowledged, if the existence of said brew was to be acknowledged at all. A dirty secret of the lower classes, regardless of how widespread its use truly was.

Sansa had no time for such hypocrisies. Indeed, she shocked the court by bringing it out in the open, listing Moon Tea among the various necessary treatments for which the production of its ingredients was meant. And she went a step further. She created a policy.

The fact is, they are sheltering refugees, camps filled with Smallfolk. Not just in Winterfell, but in every viable stronghold they might protect. Their resources are quite limited, and while they can be rationed, human nature can only be controlled so much. Groups of very cold, desperate people with seemingly nothing to lose sharing cramped quarters leads to... situations. But they can’t afford many more mouths to feed. Nor could they afford extra complications that came with pregnancies and birth.

There’s no getting around the fact that sheltering so many people in such extreme conditions is a delicate art and one that requires some difficult sacrifices, including ones that seem cruel. Others, less so.

So many issues arise that apparently, most of her (male) predecessors in similar situations failed to address and/or mishandled considerably. Accounts and even some journals were left behind from lords and kings of the North from before, including many that detailed long, strenuous winters, some in the midst of wars. The issue of reproduction rarely ever came up. When it did, there were disappointingly callous complaints of the lowborn “breeding like rabbits” and “consuming everything with their broods”, even from some of the most benevolent leaders. 

One ancestor, King Rickard Stark IV, ruled the North during the pre-Targaryen era amidst a war with The Vale. Amidst said war he managed to spare a moment of sympathy for “lasses whose virtue was torn from them”. The sentiment was cheapened, though, as it was only to compare them to their “licentious, ignorant sisters, wed and unwed, opening their legs with no thought of the extra mouths to feed created by their reckless trysts.”

Having endured a few difficult, complicated situations herself regarding conjugal matters, Sansa suspects that many of those women whom her ancestor would have thought of as the “licentious, ignorant sisters” probably had less choice than he realized.

One of the more tense interactions that took place between the Northern government and Daenerys’s council happened when the Dragon Queen detailed her sufferings, and Sansa countered that she’d suffered the same. Daenerys mentioned her rape happened at the hands of her first husband, Khal Drogo, and Sansa informed the queen that her husband, Ramsay Bolton, did the same, except he took pleasure in hurting her, and there was no chance of teaching him  _ not  _ to rape her.

Varys, the Eunuch, who had engineered the Drogo match and clearly considered himself an expert in such things, cleared his throat and sought to “correct” both women.

“Drogo could not have truly raped you, Your Grace, he was your husband, after all. As with Lady Stark and Lord Bolton. The honor of matrimony erases the possibility of violation.”

Even Tyrion furiously disputed this, citing his own sham wedding to Sansa. “If I had consummated that union, it would have been rape all the same!”

Varys didn’t make an appearance at council meetings for about a week following that. But it was a notable exchange, one that isn’t completely unheard of. In the eyes of most, a husband cannot rape his wife. A wife cannot deny her husband. 

It was even the opinion of many communities that a married woman could not be raped by anyone. In an early attempt to talk Sansa out of her marriage to Euron, Jon noted that the man had reportedly raped one of his brothers’ wives and that said brother, despite not believing that the woman was “wet and willing,” as Euron claimed, murdered said wife for her “adultery.” That, apparently, was an Ironborn custom. And there were many groups, it turned out, who had a similar, less official policy regarding such things.

That wasn’t even considering the things that could happen to men. Supposedly, men couldn’t be “raped,” no matter what, just “buggered.” Something that merely served to humiliate and permanently maim said person’s masculinity. 

Sansa took great and careful measures to try and protect her people. Tents were almost entirely gender segregated, with guards always patrolling said areas with very specific orders. If they came upon something where someone showed even the slightest unhappiness, regardless of whether they were married, the encounter was to be broken up and the people were to be questioned. No exceptions for marital status, age, or sex. The guards included Wildling spearwives. Sansa made sure of that.

Of course, things still happened. And then there were the purely willing encounters.

Some of the policies put in place for the refugees were tough, even cruel in some respects. They had to be. Able-bodied persons had to be put to work, whether it was caring for children, guarding the castle and grounds, mucking out stables, tending to the glass gardens, or crafting tools and supplies. No exceptions. And, the fact was, pregnant women couldn’t work as well as the others.

So the “Moon and Womb” policy, as members of the court called it, was put in place. Women who arrived already with child were of course accommodated, but women in the family way, no matter how far along, were required to report it. Those who weren’t too far in were offered termination. And for every non-pregnant woman capable of child-bearing, married and unmarried, an edict was put in place. Moon Tea. Every two weeks. No exceptions. Entire cauldrons of the stuff were brewed and distributed throughout the court and camps. It didn’t matter if you were a maiden fresh from your first flowering, a long-wed matron, or even a septa from White Harbor. Even Septas could be violated. 

Not everyone was happy with this, and there was some outrage when this was first announced, but people have gotten used to it begrudgingly. 

In the spirit of fairness, Sansa made a point of adhering to this herself, though a special dispensation was agreed upon for her marriage to Euron. The security that would come with producing an heir was worth the extra hungry mouth.

While Sansa hardly put the policy in place for her own, personal ends, there is no denying that it’s been advantageous. She gets what she needs and no one suspects anything, assuming that taking the drink was merely their lady and queen being “fair.” It didn’t mean that she  _ needed  _ it. Nothing to suspect. That’s altered slightly now that she’s “married,” of course, and so she has to be bit discreet, but with the ubiquitous distribution of the brew, it’s easy enough to go on taking it without anyone noticing. 

Still…

Sansa sighs as she sets her cup and saucer down. The dawn is barely breaking, and right next to the breakfast laid out for her on her small dining table is an open ledger. It’s been almost a moon since her wedding, a week since she saw Arya-as-Euron and Yara Greyjoy off. The farewells were even more painful than she imagined. She’s carried a lump of guilt in her stomach since she first concocted this scheme, but said lump has only increased in size and weight since her sister left. 

She doesn’t like parting with any of her family. Somehow, doing it as a result of her own schemes and decisions is worse. When Jon left, it wasn’t by her will or design, but she’s put Arya on this path and if anything happens to her sister…

With everything on her plate, it’s already difficult to give any pressing matter the attention it probably deserves, but this just makes it harder.

And even the few comforts she has come with bittersweet moments, like now.

Willam is still in bed, sitting up, shirtless, a drawing board propped up against his raised knees, scribbling away on some plan or design or another. Hardly an unfamiliar situation. Willam is as tireless in his work designing and arranging their defenses as Sansa is with her own work. He takes more joy in what he does, though. He’s legitimately fascinated by such mechanics, and passionately creative. 

From her vantage point at the table, Sansa moves her gaze from the now-empty cup to her lover. Her heart aches a bit. He’s perfect, he truly is. In every way, he’s perfect for her. On a personal level and a political one.

Even her marriage to Euron, despite its considerable and life-saving advantages, contained some controversy. He was a king and head of House Greyjoy. Sansa is a queen and head of House Stark. An exact agreement on how their names might be preserved was never set in stone. There was a guiding assumption that both realms would simply be joined together when they both died and their heir took both thrones. But would said kingdom be under House Stark, or House Greyjoy? Their betrothal and marriage was too rushed to have that made official.

This exact issue is why most ladies who held domains in their own right and had to preserve their House usually wed men of lower standing. Suitors from good families that would secure an advantageous alliance, but so far down the line of succession that they never had to preserve their own names.

Willam is, in every way, the perfect suitor for a ruling lady, especially for a Queen of Winter. He’s the younger son of a younger son in a family that allows women to inherit. He’s a Manderly, and thus a member of the richest and most powerful family in the North after the Starks themselves. He’s certainly a Northman, but his family was once Southron and still worshipped the Seven. This was especially advantageous to Sansa since her domains included the Seven-worshipping Vale and Riverlands. It meant that any children of their union would be comfortable following both faiths, and would be both distinctly Northern, but southern enough to represent, in a fashion, other regions. He is young and respected, a descendent of a popular and respected House. He’s been everywhere and knows people from all over, including her non-Northern domains. Also including powerful people abroad, securing her both contacts and a source of knowledge about dealing with foreign powers. If and when they wed, there’d be no question that their children would be Starks, and he’d be fully tied to her.

Then, there are the personal advantages… It’s not just that he’s handsome and clever, or even that she loves him. It’s also the way he loves her. He seems perfectly content with their respective stations, and in being simply supportive of her in her role. Even the most loving men might feel resentful, threatened, or insecure about having a wife that rules, but Willam has shown no sign of it. He doesn’t bat an eye showing her the deference and obedience she is due. It doesn’t even seem to occur to him that this might be an issue. Willam seems downright enthusiastic about it.

He’s on her team, too. Sansa had thought, when she first reclaimed her home, that there’d be only one team: Team Stark. It’s partly why she put up no fuss when Jon was crowned over her. But then he was so evasive once he took the crown, not sharing his final decisions with her until he announced them to the court, forcing her to publicly question him. Even when he seemed like he was finally consulting her beforehand, such as with Tyrion’s invitation to Dragonstone, he told her he’d do one thing and then, when he changed his mind, didn’t tell her until, once again, he was publicly declaring his position, blind-siding her and forcing her to voice her grievances before their subjects. She had to, in order to help him, but Jon had claimed she was just undermining him, even if he had forced the issue. 

Then there were Bran’s secrets and Arya’s accusations. No word from Jon during his absence. No united front whatsoever. She’d felt more alone than ever. 

Then… Willam. Once the two had worked around the obvious complications and reservations she had about his loyalties, once they established the dynamics of their relationship. Hell, even before then. He was just hers. Her supporter. Acting on her behalf, on her terms. Never overstepping, never trying to control her. He listened, and defended her, treating her like she deserved. 

Sansa’s never had that before. Never had anyone so thoroughly hers. Who put her first. 

It’s his perfection that makes things like this so painful.

Her kingdom would be more secure with an heir; ideally fathered by Willam.Sansa’s position forced her into the morbid practice of contemplating her death. She had to, she owed it to her people. And, frankly, so much pressure would be off her if she had things her way. Wed to Willam, she could designate him as her regent-in-waiting. She could have a child indisputably Stark and rest in the knowledge that, in the event of an untimely death, she could at least be certain that both her country and family would be taken care of. Her heir would be raised, loved, and taught by a respected Northman who would uphold things and lead in a way she could rely on. Her son or daughter would spend their minority years under the protection of their father, who would put the interests of the child and the country first. 

But as things are, she doesn’t have that security. Arya would inherit, but given her current position, that would be… complicated. And even if she weren’t currently on a ship masquerading as Euron, Sansa has little confidence in Arya’s abilities as a monarch. 

Conceptually, conceiving Willam’s child and passing it off as Euron’s is an option. But even if Sansa could bring herself to treat the man she loves so cruelly, it would still likely be a mess. Such a child would be legal heir to the Iron Islands, and Yara Greyjoy has an agreement with Sansa. There’d be conflict over rule of the Ironborn, and Yara might feel compelled to dispute things and expose them all. Her child would be in mortal peril.

So much is not  secure. It’s why she doesn’t personally oversee evacuations anymore. The North can’t afford her dying. She has to keep herself as safe as possible until she produces a suitable heir or the war ends. Whichever comes first.

But it’s not just the political problem. She’s on her third marriage. She’s one-and-twenty. Still absurdly young, but not getting younger. And with the conflicts and awkwardness between her and her remaining family… She’s starved for love. 

Thus, she can’t stand to look at that empty cup again. And her heart aches as she watches Willam running his stick of charcoal across the parchment.

He glances up over his drawing board and his eyes narrow. “What’s wrong, love?”

“Nothing new. I was just wishing things were easier.”

His gaze softens with comprehension, and he puts the board aside, opening his arms to her. “Come here, sweetling.”

She feels almost like a fraud, even a traitor, as she acquiesced.  His embrace is so warm, so gentle. She flushes his children from her body and sometimes, in search of her release, she thinks of another man.

It’s happened again since that night. Not on purpose. There have even been moments mid-coitus where the light catches Willam’s profile just so, or his voice drops an octave in a way that resembles Jon. The moment that happens, it’s like her cousin is in bed with them, and she can’t order him away. She finds her bliss regardless. Sometimes.

Willam deserves so much better.

“Things will get easier,” he murmurs into her ear. “Things do improve, you know. Even as other challenges present themselves. In a few years, the Night’s King will be vanquished and you’ll be the one who led the brunt of humanity’s saviors to victory. Not on horseback brandishing a sword, but by sacrificing, nurturing, caring, guiding. No one will ever think to question your worth as a monarch, and you’ll be an example. You’ll change how people view leadership, courage, strength because it will have been your wisdom and resolve that kept our soldiers armed and our people fed. Euron will have officially died. The Ironborn will be led by the eternally grateful Queen Yara, and the North can be free of that country’s raiders for at least a couple generations. The Lannisters will be reduced to Tyrion and a knight who has sworn himself to your service. Daenerys Targaryen will be too worn down and overshadowed to even think of challenging you. Your sister will return, and you’ll be safe, secure, and free to wed as you wish and finally start your family in earnest. No more sacrifices and balancing acts to keep vassals and armies together because you’ll have proven yourself beyond all doubt. You’ve already done so much. You’ll only grow wiser and more capable as the years go by. Problems will have solutions. You’ll be able to live and rule as you wish. No more blocks in the road. Winter will have come and gone and you’ll embrace the spring. This is temporary, darling. It will never stop being hard, but it will be less so as time goes on.”

Sansa sighs. “Despite your skill with a brush, my love, I don’t think you’ll ever paint a picture as pretty as that.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he tells her playfully, “I may decide to chronicle your triumphs on canvas, after all. Those might be even more glorious than what I envision now. You do have a delightful habit of exceeding people’s expectations.”

“Hardly an accomplishment when the most people expected of me throughout my life was to look pretty, do as told, and produce heirs,” remarks Sansa, grimly.

“Jon expected you to keep the North together while he was away. That was no small order. And you outdid even that. You wear a crown now for a reason. You spurred your vassals to declare for you with more than a handful of battles and a pile of corpses. People with crowns, dragons, wildfire, magic, obscene wealth, and the automatic trust of thousands cannot say the same. Daenerys has military victories, three dragons, countless followers, a seemingly secure claim, the most accomplished advisors in Westeros, and an entire religion claiming she’s a holy savior behind her, and she’s doddering over in King’s Landing, having dealt destruction to innocents, hated and suspected at every corner of Westeros. Cersei Lannister has the Iron Throne, the Lannister gold, the Iron Bank, the Iron Fleet, the backing of powerful Houses, a cache of wildfire, an unnaturally strong protector, a sorcerer and she’s nearly lost everything. Stannis Baratheon had armies, fleets, the Red Woman’s magic, a solid claim, and he was a man. Robb had dozens of victories, a loyal army, a direwolf, was a man, allies at the tip of his fingers. Jon is a man thought to be a god by some, with loyal followers, intense military training, armies, you, and a whole nation of people ready to declare him king over a battle he didn’t even win. You’ve risen despite no training, no followers, the determination of everyone to brush you aside. You are the proven leader and protector of nations. You have risen to command so much of the means the others had handed to them. You have done it yourself. No dragons. No red priestesses or sorcerers, no cock between your legs or blade in your hand. You’ve baffled all of the supposed Masters of the Game this side of the Narrow Sea. You protected your castle from an Ice Dragon, for pity’s sake. Though good sense.”

“In the case of the Ice Dragon,” Sansa replies teasingly, “my good sense was listening to you and giving you what you asked for.”

“Yes. You picked the right person to do that with under the right circumstances, in the right situation. Because that’s what makes the best leaders. The ones who last and improve the world around them. It’s not military prowess, your brothers proved that. It’s not firepower, as Daenerys clearly exemplifies. Not wealth or status, or Cersei would have no worries. Or popularity and savvy, or the Tyrells would still be here. It’s discerning eyes and ears, and sound judgment that ultimately wins out.”

“I haven’t won yet. Far from it. So I wear a crown. Everyone you just mentioned wore one at some point or another. I’ve had help-”

“Help is only good if the person knows how to accept it-”

“And this is nowhere near over. I could so easily make the wrong call at a crucial moment, just like the rest of them. This is not finished. The years of war and winter to come are not some formality.” She frowns. “I wish it were so. But I have not proven myself completely. I’d rather not see anything as certain. I can fail, and fail easily. Failure is perhaps the one thing in my life that would be easy. I’d rather not have you try to convince me otherwise. It’s not as if my life is free from error.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Still, for your errors thus far, I’d say you’ve learned from them quite well. You can do this, Sansa. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Just because I can, doesn’t mean I will. I may still fall short. If I get overconfident, I certainly will.”

She pulls from his grasps and goes to her wardrobe. Enough sweet nothings. Time to start the day. If Willam knew the truth, she doubts he’d be so generous with his praise. She doesn’t deserve it.

“Well, Your Grace, pardon me for acknowledging you and your various talents and accomplishments. But I am of the opinion that someone should. That stoic sorcerer of a brother won’t, nor will your bratty sister. And as for Jon-”

“Jon credited me with our victory over the Boltons the moment we retook Winterfell.”

“But not before the lords of the North and Vale. Not to an extent that would have put the crown where it belonged.”

Sansa yanks a gown and stockings from her wardrobe. “Enough. I am tired of your unkind remarks towards my family. Arya is currently risking her life on a mission I assigned her. Bran reports everything to me now. Jon supports me completely and has placed himself on a rack for his mistakes. There is literally nothing more I could ask of any of them at this point. Do not think that my feelings for you give you the privilege of casting judgment upon them. You are entitled to your opinions, but that doesn’t make them fair, nor does it mean I should have to listen to them, much less agree with them.”

Her irritation over this is a welcome distraction from her guilt regarding Willam and Jon. Willam is wonderful. She trusts him with her home, her heart, her life, even the welfare of her realm to an extent. But some things are sacred. Arya, Bran, and Jon are hers. They are all she has left of something she has already lost too much of. She appreciates when he rises to her defense, but that’s not what this is. 

It’s moments like this when she has doubts, when he seems to go overboard with his praise. There’s an element of truth in his comments - Arya and Bran definitely mistreated her at times, Jon took her for granted. But there’s a complex history wrapped up in all of it, and it’s  _ her  _ complex history, not Willam’s. She can see how someone would want to compensate for a perceived lack of support and acknowledgment for the object of their affections, but he goes too far, especially when he takes his criticisms of her family to a place like this.

Arya knows she made a mess of things. Arya, in her own way, is trying to rectify that. So is Jon. And Bran… Bran cannot help himself, and he is still doing what he can now, on terms she’s requested. That’s all she can ask of any of them. All she wants to ask of them. Sansa has no interest in hoarding resentment. That’s the sort of thing Petyr wanted for her. 

Willam’s not Petyr. He’s a good man, but Sansa doesn’t need him explaining the dynamics of her family to her, or telling her why the people she loves are awful. She enjoys her lemon cakes, but he is drowning her in batter. 

Nor does she need to have anyone give her a swollen head. Willam is right about one thing: she has no dragons, no sorcerers, no vaults filled with gold. It is her sense that has gotten this far. The first step to losing that and with it, everything else, is overestimating her abilities. 

Sansa knows herself. She’s not the stupid girl that Cersei, Joffrey, Petyr, and Arya said she was. But she’s not a God, either. She knows how to listen, how to try, and she likes to think her priorities are where they should be. She doesn’t know almost everything like Bran, she can’t be other people like Arya, or rise from the dead like Jon. 

The queen ducks behind her dress screen and tugs her gown on, then emerges to sit at her dressing table to dress her hair. She stares into her clear reflection and sees a woman: good-looking, flawed, battered somewhat, conflicted in some areas but carrying a harsh resolve in others. Broad shoulders, but not the most powerful ones. Enough, perhaps, to carry her burdens, but not unshakeable, struggling with a balance.

Perhaps she’s taken steps toward greatness, but that is not her intended destination, and it’s a very dangerous path regardless. One could argue that any of her still-living peers, even Cersei, have taken those steps, are on the same path. But her focus best served the people sheltered around her castle.

What is glory to responsibility? Glory is a fickle, fleeting thing, especially without the proper focus.

“I am not a legend, a rightful authority over incalculable and varied masses,” Sansa says as she begins weaving and pinning her braids. “I am not a master of grandiose concepts. I am a woman filling a role as best I can. No number of titles gives us a right to anything we haven’t accomplished yet. I am filling a role and leading people due to some accomplishment and skill, yes, but also in part due to an accident of birth. There are probably thousands of men and women out there who, had they been born to my parents, on the same date, would have done better. I’ve earned my place at the table, perhaps, as much as any person in my circumstances can. I may even be the superior choice among this country’s options. But I have not earned the right to assume greatness, or think myself completely deserving until I’ve actually seen these challenges through. I am not entitled to any glory or power or certainty. No one is, really. My people and I are better off if I continue to think in those terms.”

She rises then and meets Willam’s eyes. “Still,” she adds kindly, “it is good to be reminded of what I could do, what I could be.” She walks over and leans down to kiss him. “To know such a good and clever man thinks so much of me is a valuable motivator.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

Tyrion:

He’s begun trying to avoid private conversations with his queen. If and when she finds him alone, his stomach lurches. When she insists upon a private audience, the same thing happens. Daenerys isn’t the first person to have this affect on him. The first was his father.

Their conversations rarely go well. Her frustrations come off her like a heavy sweat. There is not a single person she seems pleased with, least of all him. 

He barely sleeps anymore. Everytime he does, he sees dragons swooping down on him, jets of flame erupting from their mouths as his queen issues merciless commands. Tyrion’s linens end up soaked in cold sweat by dawn.

The Hand of the Queen enters the map room of Dragonstone as he has so many times now, reluctantly. Daenerys has her back to him, gazing out the window. 

There are no greetings. These days, she cuts him off every time he tries. So now, he says nothing. He just stands near the door and waits.

Silence lasts a solid minute, and when she does speak, she does not face him. Tyrion struggles to try and make out her reflection in the window, but the light is too dim.

“Lord Tyrion, I don’t recall, did you ever mention your marriage to Sansa Stark to me? Or was that one of your little secrets?”

His eyes widen. “We have discussed it before, back at Winterfell, when you proposed I lay a claim to her. I’m not sure I’m the one who made you aware of this, but it was never exactly a secret. I just didn’t think it relevant until then.”

“Ah, yes. You refused, as I remember, and denied the validity of the match.”

“She was a mere girl when it happened, and a prisoner. The marriage was never consummated. Invalid by every law.”

“Jon was quite opposed as well, if I remember.”

Jon Snow nearly exploded when this was brought up. His hands shook and his voice wavered with barely-contained fury. There’d been some tension between the queen and her lover ever since they arrived at White Harbour and Jon learned of the havoc caused by the Ice Dragon. But on that day in particular, Tyrion expected the man to cut things off entirely. Perhaps he had. That was certainly the moment of no return when it came to the former king losing any and all affection for her.

“She’s his sister,” Tyrion offers, truly disturbed by the direction of this conversation. “And the marriage between us was one of many cruel, heartless abuses Sansa endured at the hands of my family. The Starks spent years fighting to regain their home, Sansa especially. Any suggestion of taking her from it, especially by a Lannister, would be intolerable to him.”

“You weren’t too fond of the idea as well. But if we’d gone through with it, I might have one less queen to contend with.”

Tyrion cringes. “I disagree, Your Grace, with all due respect. If you’d pursued such a cause, there is no doubt in my mind that we’d have been murdered in our beds by the following dawn. All of us. They may have waited until you’d left to formally crown her-”

“The cowards-”

“-but there is no doubt in my mind that she was, in their minds at least, Queen in the North already. She may have been from the moment Jon Snow journeyed south to meet you. She certainly was by the time she repelled the Ice Dragon from Winterfell.”

“I’m not so sure. They didn’t dare crown her until after I was gone. They might have given her up in exchange for their safety.”

“As far as the Northmen were concerned, Madam, Sansa was their safety. You… well,” he hesitates, “they - unfairly, of course!- blame you for the Ice Dragon. I’m afraid you ar- _ were  _ already a threat as far as they were concerned, and demands for their favorite daughter would only make that worse. Trading Sansa would not be in any way a path to safety as they saw it. Quite the opposite, in fact. People who forced her into marriages before - my family, the Boltons - were the same people who murdered their sons and daughters. Threatening to kill them all if they didn’t surrender their leader to the uncle of her father’s killer would not be any sort of exchange. At that point, they’d probably decide they literally had nothing left to lose. It was, after all, Lady Stark who evacuated them from their homes before the enemy attacked and kept them fed and sheltered. At the very least, I’d have been chopped to pieces the moment you proposed such a thing. Where they’d have turned their blades once I was dead is anyone’s guess. But there’d be more than one target, and you would certainly have been one of them.”

“You think of me being murdered often, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion’s hands become clenched fists. This comment - which he’s heard perhaps a dozen times now - is as infuriating as it is terrifying. “It is my duty to consider your safety and all threats to it, Your Grace. It’s unavoidable.”

“If they tried to kill me, my dragons would incinerate the entire castle.”

“Yes, and you’d still be dead. They wouldn’t care. They’d have died protecting their own. And have nothing to lose but their honor.”

Now she turns, finally. He steps back on instinct“Why didn’t you consummate the union?”

“WHAT?!"  


“I was sold off, much like Sansa was. Drogo forced himself on me, and he  _ loved  _ me. What affection did you have for this girl, that you spared her that?”

Tyrion gapes. “It… she was a frightened, imprisoned, abused child!”

“So was  _ I!”  _ What Tyrion mistook as a glint in her violet eyes he now sees are in fact glistening tears. It makes him feel ashamed. She moves closer with every word, he steps back until he hits the wall. But he sees the tears and perhaps…? He should reach out, surely. But he can’t.

“Viserys beat me, touched me, threatened me, would have let forty thousand men and their horses rape me to get what he wanted, and he made that clear. I spent my whole betrothal and wedding trying not to weep, shaking from terror. Drogo didn’t even mean to hurt me! He gave me a beautiful silver mare. Even before we could communicate, he made sure his men protected me, especially from Viserys. And once we could speak to one another properly, he was kind, gentle, and understanding. The moment I told him that I was in pain, that I didn’t want this in a way he could comprehend, he only touched me as I asked him to. He defied his bloodriders, his Kos, his very customs for me. He worshipped me.”

Her voice trails off, but Tyrion knows better than to speak. She continues after shaking herself.  “...And even then, there was never any question of me denying him his pleasure, just the terms on which he got them. But until I told him no, he did hurt me. He forced himself on me, then withdrew from the tent as I wept myself to sleep. In his own way, he probably already loved me to an extent. But I was his wife. That’s how things were. He wished no harm to me, but took me and hurt me all the same. She was your wife. Alone. A child. Hurt. Forced. So was I. So tell me why you withdrew your hand for her, when Drogo did no such thing for me.”

He’s utterly aghast. There’s no doubt that this isn’t so much a query as a demand for an answer, but he’s not sure he has one. He never knew Khal Drogo. He wasn’t there. He didn’t know Daenerys until he arrived in Meereen. He’s never even seen her like this, choking back tears. The only time he’s ever heard her reference being raped was when she gave that speech to Jon Snow. Tyrion scrambles. Being entirely truthful may not be wise. Everyone knows what the Dothraki are. The fact that she looks upon that man as a lover has always baffled him. But he’s dead, and it does no one any good to tell her that her husband was a monster.

“I am not a Dothraki,” Tyrion replies, trying not to shake. He’s never seen his queen like this before. “And Sansa and I could communicate. Always. We were both pressured. I didn’t want to marry her. Though I obviously had more choices than she did in all of that, this wasn’t some arrangement I’d orchestrated as an equal party. Drogo… he probably saw you as a great prize, he was a conqueror, he chose you, he took what he wanted. That match happened because he wanted it to. And the Dothraki… they’re rough people. And Drogo barely knew you, or your life. As you say, once you were wed he protected you from Viserys. But you think he knew that would be necessary when he agreed to wed you. For all he knew, this was a typical Andal style arrangement made by a loving brother and his patron, made for an alliance, elevating you to the khaleesi of the greatest of all the khalasaar’s. You weren’t a Dothraki woman, he probably thought you were just naturally meek and unused to the real world, that you’d grow accustomed, that you were merely going through the motions of any highborn girl of your tribe. Your brother was beside you the whole time, and Drogo didn’t know him. He was harsh and he hurt you horribly, but as you say, the moment he realized that, things changed. But this match…”

_ You were sold off. He raped you. Things changed. And for some reason, you still love him.  _ But she’s already on the brink. She’s weeping. He can’t push her over the edge. If romanticizing her monster of a husband would keep her last threads of sanity intact… so be it. She’s paranoid enough already. He doesn’t need to set her against him any more.

“...I entered into that with no such ignorance, no such cultural bias. Sansa had no brother beside her. I knew she had brothers, ones who truly loved her, and out of that love would never have chosen me for her. They were caught in a war to free her from my family. My nephew beat and humiliated her regularly. She was in a constant state of fear, an executioner’s blade hanging over her for years at that point. There was no illusion that she could have ever been prepared for this arrangement, or that it was in her best interest to marry me.  It was pure malice and greed. A means of stealing whatever my family hadn’t taken from her already to increase their power. My father, sister, and nephew were her Viserys, and unlike Drogo, I knew exactly what they were and had no illusions of bringing my bride glory. I was the means to steal her home from her once and for all. That was it. There was no miscommunication, ignorance. No mistakes to be made. No pretence of family or cultural approval. Sansa was blatantly just a prisoner, forced into the sept by people intent on her suffering. There’d be no honor, glory, or status. Nothing to learn.

“It had nothing to do with her being unused to the world I lived in. I knew every circumstance. There was nothing there but undisguised cruelty and exploitation. I knew what I’d be doing and that no amount of gentleness or kind words or even affection would soften or fix it. So, in the end, I couldn’t. That’s why, Your Grace. Sansa Stark was a sweet girl, and, I suspected, cleverer than people gave her credit for. Tough. Brave, especially for one so young. She’d endured great suffering, suffering I knew nearly every detail of. She endured it in part because of who she was, out of hope for her home and family. My family wanted to use who she was, her name, her place within her family to take her home. Make her name into an instrument of further suffering. But no amount of strength or endurance or intelligence would change or fix or soften the damage such a crime would have done to her if I’d consummated that union. Not just to her person, but to her future. It would have been rape, Your Grace. Unlike your late husband, I understood that. And I was not going to rape a frightened, innocent, child prisoner and turn her very identity against her.”

There’s some brief silence. “There is some affection there, I hear it in your voice.”

Tyrion sighs. “When we were wed, there was some admiration, but not affection, really. I’d observed how she’d handled herself throughout the madness her life had become and was impressed. But I barely knew her at all. Certainly not enough to care about her beyond basic compassion and decency. We briefly developed something of an affinity for one another after the wedding. She started warming up to me somewhat as she became more certain that I wouldn’t rape her. I certainly appreciated that, considering all the history and the miserable circumstances of our match. So yes, I liked her. But any friendship between us was killed when the Red Wedding happened. I never lost my good opinion of her, but any feelings I had for her never got a chance to develop beyond some friendly regard. I didn’t rape her because I knew what I’d be doing and I didn’t want to do it, Your Grace. But it is not, as you may be implying, because of some residual loyalty to her that might conflict with my service to you.”

Sansa’s not even a threat to Daenerys, not really. There is no reason for this. He understands the fear of looking weak, of the dent in the Targaryen domains and grandeur but there are ways around that. Daenerys still has vast holdings back east that more than make up for losses in the North, Trident, or Vale. And besides, she’d already agreed to Ironborn independence. Daenerys has built her power on a promise of liberty. 

It would be  _ so easy  _ to spin the secession of the three kingdoms as her adhering to that very principle. That Starks aren’t Cersei. They have no desire to see Daenerys dead, or keep her from the Iron Throne. They don’t care. They’re proud, yes, and stubborn, but they are desperately clinging to what they have and in a situation far too difficult to care about anything beyond those borders. Any current or future animosity they might hold towards the Dragon Queen was entirely based on her choices. Unless she did something truly stupid - like, say, try to force the Scion of Winterfell out of her home and back into a forced marriage to an enemy House - it was unlikely to escalate to open hostility against her. The people of the North needed Daenerys’s help and had no illusions about it. They had no ambitions beyond freedom and survival. They couldn’t afford them. And Tyrion knows for absolute certain that the Queen of Winter would rather drink wildfire than set foot anywhere near King’s Landing again. 

It’s not as if relenting on this would be a huge sacrifice or even a permanent one. The North was never rich in gold or food. They’d been hit the hardest by the winter and wars. Jon Snow and Sansa Stark had inherited nothing more than a shambles, really. And even if Daenerys was still desperate to take on the extreme pain in the arse ruling such an area would be, she might still be able to if she played her cards right. If she, say, convinced the people of the North that she was their savior, found a way to undo the damage she’s already done and win them over… The Starks might feel compelled to relinquish their royal titles and bend the knee once the war was done. Maybe. Though the likelihood of that was certainly much healthier before Daenerys flew South again, it might still be salvageable. Maybe.

The fact is, the northernmost regions of Westeros presented a lot to work on and little to really work with. And Daenerys’s plate is full enough. Playing nice with House Stark was in every way in the Queen’s best interests. 

But that’s not what his queen wants to hear.

If anything, the first major action Sansa has taken as Queen (employing powers she only could have exercised with a crown on her head) is already hugely beneficial to Daenerys and her efforts to take the Iron Throne. The one person standing in her way --- Cersei --- has had all her resources and prospects ripped from her. She is more a threat to King’s Landing and herself than she is to Daenerys now that Sansa’s swiped Euron Greyjoy and his forces out from under her nose. The Queen of Winter has done more to help Daenerys onto the Iron Throne than any amount of Northern forces could have. 

That’s  _ definitely  _ not something she wants to hear.

But Daenerys… The woman just thought about the titles. She couldn’t see past it. She’d come too far, suffered too many setbacks to let this go, apparently. 

Tyrion fears it may be her ruin. He has to make her see…

“Are there any developments in the North? Aside from the wedding, that is?”

“Yara Greyjoy has apparently made peace with her uncle. She’s his heir until Sansa gives him a son,” Dany says bitterly. “Stupid woman. I offered her a crown. But she’ll probably never get it now.”

Tyrion forces himself not to point out the obvious in regards to Yara Greyjoy.

“Then there’s this,” Daenerys adds, gesturing towards a sheet of parchment on the table. “I wrote to Jon instructing him to publicly declare our refusal to acknowledge the validity of his sister’s titles. That is his response.”

Tyrion inches toward the spot on the table. The message is short.

_ To Her Grace Queen Daenerys, _

_ Your Grace, I am afraid I lack the capacity to make such a declaration to the Northern court on your behalf. As your warden, I am equipped to direct and handle any and all affairs regarding Targaryen military forces stationed in the North, and offer you counsel on said matters. But I am afraid that I am unqualified to issue any formal diplomatic declarations in your name. I suggest sending an ambassador to Winterfell to handle such things on your behalf. _

_ Your Servant, _

_ Jon Snow, Warden of the North _

Tyrion’s stomach sinks. So that’s what’s behind this latest bout of paranoia and jealousy.

He tries to comfort his queen. “Given the reception we got in the North, it’s understandable why he might feel ill-suited-”

“That’s not why and you know it! He was perfectly willing to negotiate and make declarations with me when he arrived at Dragonstone!”

_ He was a king then, and he ended up botching it. That’s why his sister is queen now. _

Tyrion doesn’t say this. “Maybe he’s just afraid of failing you, like he did before. Perhaps his suggestion has some merit-”

“Sending an ambassador would only informally acknowledge the Starks as a foreign power and give them a potential hostage!”

He’s honestly surprised that she considered this. “Not an ambassador, then. A diplomat. A messenger. Someone whose loyalties you’re certain of, but who’s status would never be enough to suggest that you’re showing the North the honor of issuing a real ambassador.”

She considers this. “That’s… Not a terrible idea, I suppose. Very well.” She clears her throat.

“Get me Ser Jorah.”

Tyrion winces. “Um, Your Grace, are you-”

“NOW!”

He hurries out, shaking and sick to his stomach.  _ What have I done? _


	7. The Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah arrives in the North, Sansa struggles with a decision, Daenerys and Cersei make their moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the wait! I've had some issues because my beta-reader went AWOL. If anyone is interested, let me know!

Sansa:

She sits, speechless, as Jorah Mormont treads sheepishly into the Great Hall. By the way he hangs his head, it’s clear he feels the weight of every eye upon him.

The man was barely tolerated when Daenerys’s court was stationed at Winterfell. He was smart enough to keep his head low and do his best to get lost in the shuffle of advisors, warriors, and attendants that surrounded the Dragon Queen at all times. But now, he was practically naked.

When Sansa received word from Tyrion Lannister that Jorah Mormont was arriving as an ambassador of the Targaryen Queen, she was certain there was a misunderstanding. Jorah Mormont technically doesn’t have a right to walk on Northern soil with his head still attached. The man is a confessed slaver. His past and presence in Daenerys’s inner circle is one of the reasons no one in the North took the Targaryen’s claims of being a “liberator” seriously. The woman crucified hundreds of Meereenese Slavers and immolated another without trial, but she allowed a man who had confessed to selling people into bondage by her side?

In Westeros, the penalty for engaging in the trade, ownership, or procurement of slaves is death, pure and simple. Had been for years. Even the Ironborn knew not to try and buy and sell the “thralls” they captured or enslave their thralls’ children.

Slavery in Meereen was something that the elite were born into, and while Sansa does not doubt that many of them deserved death, killing a random collection of people who had owned slaves, regardless of their record as masters and culpability in various crimes while letting other slavers --- including a man born into an anti-slavery culture who still trafficked human beings --- into her inner circle, even _marrying_ one, is madness as far as the Queen of Winter is concerned.

You either execute them all, or, if you wish to take things at a case by case basis, you actually give each case an actual trial. You don’t brutally murder someone for the crime of possibly, maybe having a vague association with criminals.

It’s not as if Mormont has a sterling reputation for loyalty and service, either. Sansa recalls an evening back in King’s Landing, when Father was still alive, when he came home without his badge of office, talking about a plan to kill Daenerys. Sansa remembers that night because she’d panicked, believing the row would mean the end of her betrothal to Joffrey. She’d even eavesdropped outside her father’s office with Arya --- afraid of losing her Dancing lessons --- as their Lord Father ranted at Vayon Poole.

He’d spoken of the plot being hatched on the intelligence gathered by Jorah Mormont, who was promised a royal pardon for his work as a spy. That was just another dose of vile, as far as Lord Stark was concerned, in regards to this whole plot.

According to Jon, Daenerys knows of this, and after a brief exile, Jorah Mormont was welcomed back into her inner circle for saving her life, after he’d contracted Greyscale. He was miraculously cured by Samwell Tarly, but that was after he’d entered the city of Meereen and even touched Daenerys.

While infected with one of the most dangerous diseases known to man.

So, Jorah Mormont’s tracked record is slavery, fleeing from justice, spying on the queen he was sworn to for a royal pardon, then switching sides without telling anyone, and bringing a violently infectious disease into the domain of the person he supposedly loves.

Sansa strongly suspects that if Jorah Mormont were Meereenese or didn’t spend most of his time fawning over Daenerys, he’d have been roasted years ago.

Even Lord Tyrion seemed to understand what a terrible idea it was to send Jorah Mormont here, writing Jon repeatedly to beg him to take on diplomatic duties on Daenerys’s behalf well after Mormont was announced. Jon pretends not to have gotten them, making no mention of the messages in his weekly reports to the Targaryen court about the army here.

Hells, even the Gods themselves seem to be against it. The ship carrying Jorah from Dragonstone to White Harbor nearly capsized twice in terrible storms, and he’d been snowed in and delayed further multiple times as he road from there to Winterfell.

Sansa, for her part, kept waiting for word that Daenerys had come to her senses and decided to send someone else instead.

Still, as disbelieving as she is, she’s used Bran’s gift to prepare herself. She knows what Jorah Mormont is here to do. He knows she knows. And so on and so forth. She’s used this as an opportunity to look into Daenerys’s exploits, and the consequences of said exploits.

Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen, the cities she conquered, “liberated”, and renamed Dragon’s Bay are, as it turns out, a mess. The Regent she left behind, a former sellsword and ex-lover named Daario Naharis, is holed up in he Great Pyramid with no martial forces it some castle guards since Daenerys took nearly her entire army and her dragons with her.

With those things gone, various surrounding powers, many of which had a vested interest in the Slave Trade in the three cities, have surrounded their walls. It seems that Euron Greyjoy isn’t the only anti-Targaryen faction that the Iron Bank is funding. The rehabilitated government of Qarth has involved itself as well. If that weren’t enough, several governments, now no longer occupied with repelling Dothraki hoards now that Daenerys has taken all the men west, are contributing too, including Volantis, Lys, and other slave nations.

There are open revolts from both freedmen and former masters. Daenerys left the women and children of the Dothraki behind, leaving a massive strain on the cities’ limited resources, and causing conflict among the citizens. And, as it so happens, Jorah managed to infect the city after all. Numerous citizens of Meereen were contracting the Grey Scale.

On top of that, the enemies attacking the cities were catapulting bodies carrying a disease known as the Pale Mare over the walls, so two epidemics were occurring in Meereen simultaneously. The farmlands surrounding the cities have been scorched, so people are starving. And all trade has ceased.

Even worse, from what Bran can glean from his observations of Daenerys, Sansa’s taken a far greater interest in the affairs of Dragon’s Bay than the actual Dragon Queen. Not once has her brother witnessed the Targaryen discuss or even receive word about her eastern kingdom, as if it ceased to be.

This is the legacy of the woman who expects to be declared sovereign of this continent.

So she sends a traitorous slaver here to tell Sansa that she’s a traitor and in open revolt.

Before he can do this, however, Sansa stands. “You are Jorah Mormont, emmissary of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Slaver’s Bay, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, correct?”

“Er, yes, My Lady.”

“You mean ‘Your Grace’!” Davos prompts him angrily. “Sansa Stark is ruling Queen of the three Winter Realms of the North, the Vale, and the Trident, by right of blood, conquest, and public will.”

Mormont wastes no time. “My queen Daenerys does not recognize the sovereignty of Lady Stark or her realms. She considers them the rightful domains of the Iron Throne, which, as Lady Stark herself mentioned, Daenerys is the rightful heir to. For the lady to designate herself as a queen of over half the land of Westeros is an act of open rebellion.”

“We’ve been in open rebellion, against one holder or ‘rightful heir to’ the Iron Throne or another for over seven years,” Sansa responds softly, sitting again and smiling, “We rebelled against House Targaryen upon the murders of my grandfather and uncle, Rickard and Brandon Stark. Technically, the Targaryens were deposed and the Iron Throne was seized by right of conquest, so even calling your queen or any member of her family the ‘rightful heir’ to it is a courtesy on our part, based more on the fact that no trueborn Baratheons still live than our belief in Targaryen rights.

“We declared open independence seven years ago when the lords of the Trident and the North declared my brother, Robb Stark, their king over Stannis or Renly Baratheon, King Robert’s rightful heirs. House Stark was deposed in a fashion, but seized our homestead and reinstated ourselves as lords in the north, and our lords once again declared us their monarchs. First my half-brother Jon, who chose to bend the knee to your queen without Northern consent, rendering his action no more than an abdication and defection. We still sheltered and supported your queen on the understanding that she would throw her forces behind protecting the realms from the White Walkers, but she broke faith with us by departing. Thus our lords officially declared me their queen. And unlike your queen, I actually _sit_ on the very throne I lay claim to. And yet, I still have made a significant contribution to your queen’s struggle against Cersei Lannister, fulfilling a promise that my half-brother made. The North has aided Daenerys in her wars and recognizes her as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. But that does not mean we or our people have to consider ourselves as part of the Iron Throne’s domain. We would prefer to consider ourselves in an _alliance_ with your queen despite her misdeeds thus far, but if she is intractable, then we are perfectly willing to be in ‘open rebellion’, as you call it. We shall consider it more a declaration of conquest on Daenerys’s part, however.”

There is a chorus of “Ayes!” throughout the Hall.

Jorah, looking aghast, sputters. “But… But… She’s willing to save you all!”

Sansa’s hands tighten into fists below the table’s surface. This is truly something she is tired of hearing. “It’s not a matter of saving ‘us’, Ser. The White Walkers are a threat to every living soul in Westeros and Beyond. Fighting the White Walkers with us isn’t just a matter of saving the North, but saving your queen and her subjects as well. She needs the North to survive, because if we fall, she falls. Even if she were to provide the bulk of the forces --- which she hasn’t --- we’d still be providing a large portion of the men, holdfasts, and accommodations for her armies. She is not saving us, we are all saving ourselves. She needs us every bit that we need her.

“In fact, given recent events, I’d say her need for us is greater than our reliance on her. So far, the only major contribution she’s made to this war is giving the enemy an Ice Dragon. The Night’s King has already taken one of her dragons. If he absorbs the North into his domains, he’ll make short work of taking the remaining two and it will be much, much too late by then. And even if that weren’t true, Ser Jorah, she hasn’t saved us. She positioned her army here for a couple of moons, eating our food and sleeping in our beds, then abandoned us the moment it became inconvenient. And even after _I_ resolved that inconvenience for her, she’s still in the South, salivating over King’s Landing and burning anyone who defies her. As far as I see it, Ser Jorah, bending the knee to your queen wouldn’t be so much getting ‘saved’ as replacing one threat with another. Ice for fire. Quite frankly, any supposed queen who would endanger countless innocents over a title and a chair is no queen for the North.”

“Aren’t you doing exactly that by defying Daenerys?” Jorah demands.

“No, because I am providing for my people, and because I was chosen by them. I have no interest in the Iron Throne, and my defiance is based on the desires of those I rule. If I were to bend the knee to Daenerys, the people here would do the same thing as they did with Jon. It would be considered an abdication, and another King or Queen would be selected to take my place. I’m not doing this over a title, or I’d have revolted when Jon was declared king. Or when Daenerys was here. Your Queen was given a chance, and she abandoned us. She relinquished her right to call herself a savior or ruler of these lands when she flew south. She’s chosen the kingdom she wanted. It doesn’t include this one.”

“She could fly up here the moment Cersei is finished and destroy you all!”

“If she is indeed capable of such a thing, then she probably would do that eventually, regardless of whether or not I bend the knee. She’s proven that she’s happy to immolate people for slights both real and imagined. And if she’s willing to burn innocent men, women, and children over the bend of the knee, well, the Winter realms are already doomed. But I can tell you that even if she succeeds in doing so, she will not be in power for very long. If the White Walkers don’t get her, the mass revolt among the people of Westeros and the foreign allies they’ll certainly acquire will. Your queen has already procured plenty of powerful enemies, and no one on Planetos will be able to risk letting such a monster live. They’ll destroy her before she has a chance to breed more dragons and turn them on their homes. I can promise that. There are already scores of powerful people with such intentions sacking Meereen as we speak. All she’d do by destroying us would be lighting a beacon for all the world to turn against her and destroy the last remnants of House Targaryen once and for all.”

Sansa watches Jorah’s face, how his eyebrows shoot up at the mention of Meereen. It’s as she suspected: none of them have any idea. No one bothered. ‘Breaker of Chains’ indeed.

The Queen of Winter sighs. “Is that what your queen wants?”

“I--- She---”

Sansa shakes her head. “I doubt even she could answer that question at this point. Tell me, Ser Jorah, as we’ve gotten some troubling reports. Is your queen… quite well?”

She notes how his hands curl into fists, how his eyes glance anywhere but at her.

“My queen is as glorious and strong as ever,” Jorah seethes.

“Of course.” She rises again, her tone gracious. “Well, Ser Jorah, you have our answer. Rooms have been prepared for you. Why don’t you settle in and then write to your queen and tell her everything I’ve said? Such counsel could prove quite valuable.”

“Wait a moment!” Lady Mormont rises. “That’s it? The man is a slaver and a traitor!”

“And, unfortunately, the dignitary of a potential foreign ally.” Sansa says evenly. “We cannot simply kill him.”

“Whyever not? He committed a crime, he’s guilty of it, he’s admitted it. He’s fled from justice twice!” Alys Karstark calls out. “In the eyes of Gods and Men, his life is forfeit!”

“Yes, to the House that sentenced him. Mine.” Sansa says evenly. “And it is with our kingdom’s best interests in mind that I am not claiming his head today. My lords and ladies, consider this an indefinite stay of execution.”

There are some grumbles of protest, but the ladies take their seats. After all, she hasn’t failed them yet. The Enemy hasn’t gained an inch since the Golden Company arrived. Many refugees are being resettled comfortably thanks to the Iron Fleet. Sansa’s eyes meet Jorah’s. _Do not ignore the significance of what has just occurred._ Judging by the sad, resigned look he gives her, he won’t.

Ser Jorah is escorted from the Hall. Sansa determinedly goes forwards with some more matters to put before the court, politely but firmly cutting off anyone who makes a further reference to their new diplomat. It doesn’t take them long to stop. After eighteen moons or so of her in charge, Sansa’s vassals know her moods well. And she knows theirs. She reads the unease in their faces.

The war is going better than most could have hoped. As it turns out, Ice Dragons take longer to heal from their wounds than their living counterparts. Ground attacks still continue, but they are slower, and the enemy often arrives to their destinations to find them conspicuously empty. Their army does not swell as it once did.

Sansa now schedules the evacuations of the higher North in a more organized fashion. Before, the evacuations, particularly of less centralized areas, happened practically all at once, with no time for the people to prepare. Sending ravens ahead had limited use in fully illiterate areas, and sending scouts had low efficacy thanks to the weather. With more time, officers of the North could have enough time to ride out beforehand and tell the smallfolk to begin gathering their things before the wagons arrived.

The Iron Fleet is invaluable, of course. Even the most staunchly anti-Ironborn lords, such as Glover, admit that now. It helps that now people are being directly moved to harbors and onto ships to bring them south instead of having them all settle at more local castles for a time, leaving the major holdfasts less strained. Their defenses all over are stronger and their people are safer.

Sansa knows this is temporary. Eventually, the Ice Dragon will heal, their resources will run low, more concessions will have to be made. The war in the south will end and Daenerys shall likely fly right back up here, furious and making demands again. And eventually, her own lords will grow weary of the demands she makes upon them. But Sansa is milking this period of relative ease for all it is worth while she still can.

And Willam did, in fact, make a suggestion of how she might milk it a bit longer.

Sansa is not above deceit. This, though…

Last night, after Willam suggested it, she went to Bran’s chambers. Her brother, sitting by the window, looked up at her in that knowingly expectant way of his that always puts her on edge.

“I take it that you know why I’m here?” She asked him.

“Yes. Your paramour’s plot. I endorse it.”

She doesn’t act surprised. She did not anticipate that answer, but she did not expect a ‘no’, either. She comes to Bran not as her brother anymore, but as the Three-Eyed Raven to tell her if something is ill-advised or not.

“If I go through with it, who do I trust?”

“As few people as possible, obviously. But you’ll need Maester Daven and Cecily’s help, and they won’t betray you. And if you tell Jon ahead of time, he will be helpful. If you don’t, well… He’d never intentionally betray you. But he’ll ask inconvenient questions that could cause leaks. The same can be said for Ser Jaime and Brienne. They’ll need to know, because they were present at your wedding night. But it’s not a terrible idea. The Dragon Queen may not be in the South much longer, so this could be a great help.”

So she gathered them all together. “I’m not sure if I can go through with it, but… If I do, I’d like to count on you all to help me.”

Now, she feels all their eyes upon her. Though their enthusiasm over the idea varied, all of them agreed it could do wonders to aid their cause. It would increase her subjects’ confidence and patience with her, further validate her marriage to Euron in the eyes of the world, possibly keep the Ironborn calm, and give her leverage over Daenerys when the time comes.

The only issue was properly informing Arya and Yara. How they reacted to the news would greatly influence how this went forward and the effect it would have on the Iron Fleet.

But she does have a means of communicating with Arya discreetly. In a code that is not a code. Merely her handwriting, so pretty. Too pretty, in fact. Sometimes with absurd, ridiculous flourishes to her calligraphy that one would think a hard-working queen at war would have no time to indulge in. To the point of being _unbelievable,_ really. Unless, of course, said queen was sharing some particularly, absurdly happy news. Then some flourish might seem believable.

Unless, of course, the person receiving the happy letter was told beforehand to take any over-drawn sentences with too many artistic and fanciful flourishes to mean the exact opposite of whatever the words actually said, regardless of context.

Thus, the sentence _I’m sure you’ve not heard word of this, I’m with child_ , written with a lattice design and spirals within the closed curves would actually mean to a certain person, _You’ll hear this from people, but I’m not with child._

Sansa feigns some weariness and cups her brow for a moment. The Hall pauses.

“Your Grace,” Willam asks, rising, “Are you well?”

Sansa counts to three, then looks up with a smile. “Yes, Ser, thank you. I’m quite well. It’s just... Nothing. Just feeling somewhat weary.”

No, she can’t deceive them like this. Not now. Perhaps when things grow more urgent. She still has time. It’s been just over two moons since “Euron” left.

“My queen, there is… another piece of news. Or, rather, more like gossip,” Lady Dustin says, “I’ll need Prince Brandon to confirm it, but… There are whispers that Queen Cersei has lost her child.”

The room goes still, and Sansa’s blood runs cold. Everyone’s eyes go to Bran, whose own are white. He returns to the Hall a moment later and solemnly nods. Sansa’s mouth goes dry.

“If… If that’s true,” Lord Royce says, “Then she officially has nothing to lose. If we know then…”

“...Daenerys knows.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Daenerys:

The city stinks, like the largest privy in the world. Viserys used to wrinkle his nose at Vaes Dothrak while singing of Westeros as a “true” civilization. But Daenerys was struck by the smell when she first neared the city for that fruitless parlay, and she smells it now, even this high in the air.

Still, she cannot be discouraged. The day is here, at long last. Her heart soars

The sandstone buildings are so small from here, coated in snow. The Red Keep sticks out like an angry boil.

She shouldn’t have waited this long. Tyrion wanted to try and steal all the wildfire from the city first, but that was never going to happen. This city will burn at least a bit. And how much said blaze is contained depends entirely on how quickly she can get to her enemy.

Daenerys recognizes the layout of the castle from the books Jorah gave her. Too bad he can’t see her now. This is the moment they’ve both been waiting for.

She hears an explosion. A portion of the yellow-white city goes up in green flames. Daenerys’s heart sinks. They know she’s here. Her Dothraki will have to contend with the wildfire. She urges Drogon down, straight for the center of the scarlet complex, right towards Maegor’s holdfast.

Those hideous spears are propelled through the air by the machines on the castle towers. One gets disturbingly close. It only makes her heart pound faster. She feels exhilarated, despite it all. This. This is what she was born for.

She has Drogon get close to a couple of the towers. “Dracarys.”

Two ballistas down.  Towers crumble. Lannister soldiers scream. She’s come to like the sound of it.

Rhaegal shrieks and Daenerys turns her head, scared for a moment. The green dragon is not hit, but it hesitates, retreating slightly in midair from fear.

Of the three, Viserion had always been the least fierce and wild --- hence why she’s not entirely too afraid for when she finally faces the Night’s King’s abomination. No wonder he’d been the first to fall. While Rhaegal was never as weak as the white dragon, he was no Drogon, either.

Daenerys curses Sansa Stark. Her other child would not be so skittish if it hadn’t been hit by one of the Northern ballistas. She screams for her child to push forward. Rhaegal is taxed with taking care of the rest of the ballistas while she and Drogon make straight for Cersei. There are more explosions in the distance.

The Dragon Queen spots the stained glass window: the one from the illustrations, the one she recognizes from her vision in the House of the Undying. The Seven Pointed Star that looms above the throne room, like the eye of the gods themselves.

Daenerys smirks and bursts through the glass, ducking close to Drogon’s neck so they can fit through the narrow opening. Still, bits of wall and ceiling are destroyed.

Cersei does not shriek. She sits, imperious, atop the throne, only ducking briefly to avoid some rubble, as her giant guard tries to cover her, brandishing a Valyrian Steel blade with a lion’s head hilt. Her hands are gently folded in her lap.

Daenerys ignores him, instead landing Drogon in the center of the Hall. She dismounts, grinning.

Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, charges toward her.

“Dracarys.”

The Mountain melts before her, silent. It’s stunning to witness. How was he so quiet? Everyone, no matter how strong, how brave, how stubborn, screams as they burn.

Daenerys tears her eyes away from the steaming muck that was once the Mountain that Rides and looks to her enemy.

Cersei still grins. Daenerys is infuriated. _You’re beaten!_ She wants to screams. _Don’t you understand?! The throne is mine!_

But she tries to keep herself cool. She will not give the Lannister pretender the satisfaction.

“You’re finished, Cersei Lannister,” Daenerys says, nonchalantly walking around Clegane’s remains, “Your reign is ended. My armies storm this city. One dragon flies high above this castle, the other is before you. You have no defenses. No fleet. No armies. No supporters. No husband. No children. Even your own brothers have abandoned you. The Iron Throne is mine. Surrender now and I’ll let you have a quick death. A single swipe of a sword. Painless.”

Cersei actually laughs. “Painless? You think I fear pain? I fear neither pain nor death. The Iron Throne shall never be yours, Daenerys Stormborn, and I shall never submit to you. No one shall, I promise that.”

Daenerys feels on the verge of exploding. What is she even talking about?! The woman is beaten in every way! How can she say such things?

“The Iron Throne has been mine since my brother’s death. Now, I merely shall sit upon it. Stand aside.”

Cersei snorts. “No, I don’t think so.” She glances at her lap, then at Daenerys again. “I may have no children. No dynasty to leave this to, but neither do you. You’re nothing but a dead end, the last whimper of a line of lunatics and folly.”

“Whimper?! My dragons---”

“---One has died, the others shall follow. Your armies are burning now, even as we speak. When I am dead, go out and look upon the fruits of your conquest. Behold the price and the prize. I rob you of it all.”

She parts her hands to reveal a green jar. Daenerys’s heart stands still. Cersei cackles further.

“I was born a lion, I live as a lion, and I shall die one! I shall be the last queen of the Iron Throne!” Their eyes meet, green on violet, and Cersei smirks. “I am Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name, last of the rulers of the Iron Throne. Hear. Me. Roar.”

Cersei does scream as the emerald flames engulf her, but there is no satisfaction to be had in them. Daenerys screams as well. The flames make quick work of Cersei’s flesh, and do not stop there. They engulf the throne itself. Daenerys watches in horror as her dream begins to melt and fall. All the swords and hilts of all the Targaryen enemies droop and drip and desolidify. The burning, melting steel descends, pooling down the royal dais. Black, metallic ooze alight with green flames cascade down the steps towards Daenerys. She shrieks and watches in horror. The flames catch onto the tapestries and the other fixtures. They do not die. More melts and Daenerys cannot stop it. She does not know how to put the fire out.

Wildfire does not die from mere water, Tyrion told her. And even if it did, she has none. The Iron Throne is reduced to a shapeless mound, and the mound keeps shrinking. Daenerys can no longer think, no longer breathe. Her dream is gone. All of it.

The flames reach her, they burn her boots, melt her armor, burn her clothes. The Dragon Queen stands stock still as the melted steel of her armor drips, melting, down her body. She sinks to her knees. She hears the rumble of distant eruptions, of plaster and brick falling, of screams.

She’s too weak to even sit up, falling forward, hands sinking into the melted steel.

A sharp, scaly, immense thing burrows under her. Drogon pushes her onto his snout, then tosses her, limbless, backwards. She lands, hard, on her belly, limps dangling against each flank, and Drogon takes to the air.

The last thing she sees is a landscape of green flames below her.

She comes to consciousness in deep pain, wishing that it would all end. What is left, after all? The Throne is gone. Cersei took it with her. It’s over.

Her eyes open, and bandages greet her. Bandages, bloody in spots, wrapped around a head. One eye is covered, only the left squints at her. Sitting next to the bandaged figure is Missandei, who might as well be bandaged, given how unreadable her face is.

The world is awash in the scent of burning flesh. Daenerys rises only to lean over the side of her bed and empty the contents of her stomach. Even the vomit smells better. She dry heaves several times before rising and wiping her mouth. “Where am I?”

“The Goldenroad, ten miles from what was once King’s Landing,” her herald tells her, her voice like a tomb.

“‘Was once’?” Daenerys asks.

“The entire city burned. The streets. The Walls. The Red Keep. The people. City folk and soldiers. Nearly all of your Dothraki are dead, along with most of your Unsullied. What forces we have left are now trying to put out the blaze. There is no city now, only fire.”

Her mouth goes dry. _Most of my Unsullied._ “...Grey Worm?”

The bandaged figure weakly lifts its bandaged arm. Daenerys allows herself two seconds of relief before demanding, “My advisors? Lord Tyrion? Varys?”

“Lord Tyrion is supervising the containment of the fire. Lord Varys has disappeared.”

 _Traitor._ “My dragons?”

“Flying overhead.”

She breathes a sigh of relief. She can still take and save Westeros if she still has them. “Any resistance left?”

“None that we know of at the moment.”

Daenerys notices something about Missandei’s clipped sentences. “Missandei, you are not addressing me as ‘My Queen.’”

“That’s because you are no longer my queen, Queen Daenerys.”

Daenerys glares at her friend. “You pledged to follow me to death.”

“I pledged my allegiance to the Breaker of Chains. And I have followed her to more than enough death. To her own, in fact. My liberator is gone. She left the people she freed and died. She has been replaced with a Conqueror I do not recognize.”

The Dragon Queen sits up, furious. “Cersei burned---”

“---As you knew she would. And you were happy to let her. Grey Worm returned to me unrecognizable, and he is not the only one. I have followed Daenerys Stormborn to over a million deaths now.” Missandei rises and helps Grey Worm to his feet. “There will likely be many terrified people who will bend the knee to you now and proclaim you their queen, swear their service, out of fear, out of a lack of choice. You have given them nothing in return, only taken. You promised me that I’d never have to serve another Master. You lied. The people of Westeros will know slavery now, but I have had my fill of it. I leave your service as a Free Woman, Daenerys Targaryen. Good-bye.”

She turns, helping Grey Worm towards the exit of the tent. Daenerys calls her name twice, but Missandei does not turn back.

Furious, Dany grabs the tunic by her bed, yanks it on, and runs out after her. But Missandei has disappeared in a thick smog. There’s only one thing she can really see.

The sky is smoke of the darkest grey, all of it expanding from a single point in the distance: a bright, green point. There was white snow on the ground, but now it is coated in ash the same color as the sky. The soot and smog is too thick, it stings her eyes and tastes bitter on her lips. Daenerys feels she has been swallowed by a storm. A storm of fire and smoke and death. No rain to be found.

Snow starts to fall, blackened and thickened with soot. It coats her skin, her tunic, dirty and freezing.

The camp around her is disjointed and sparsely populated. Daenerys squints around her. What figures she can make out keep a distance. She cannot see their eyes, but she can feel them. They hold no love, no reverence, just fear. Dany panics. She is surrounded by strangers. Strangers and ashes and death.

It’s not her fault. Cersei did it. Not her. She’s here to save Westeros. Save it. Her home. Hers. Her birthright. This… This was Cersei. The Lannisters. Not her. She’s a savior, not a conqueror… She’s… She’s...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a time-skip after this.


	8. Ashes and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aftermath of King's Landing, Jon comes full circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the wait, but RL was crazy --- a move, some personal crises, professional stuff, etc.
> 
> This is the last chapter before the time skip and end of part one. Hope you like it!
> 
> Thanks to israfel00 for his beta-work!

Tyrion:

The fire is hottest and most resilient when it burns green, and it feeds off of the presence of other wildflame. So King’s Landing burns green for nearly half a day before they can approach it.

Tyrion thought he knew the substance inside and out through the research he did pre-Blackwater. But his knowledge now seems insufficient. They can’t put the flames out fast enough. They have to stand back for hours on end and just let the city burn.

Tyrion thought he knew a lot of things. But he feels nothing but ignorant and powerless now.

When the eruptions began, Tyrion ordered forces to flee as much as possible. A few thousand managed to escape, but it was a small fraction overall. Many who escaped are irrevocably maimed, many crippled. Those that are still able-bodied stood back, trying to contain whatever they can on the outskirts of the city so that the whole of the Crownlands don’t go up in flames.

They manage that, and it’s the only real victory of the day.

When the city finally starts burning red, they move in. There are barely any bones left. Just ash.

Daenerys was lifted from the Red Keep amidst the blaze by Drogon. The beast, ever intelligent, delivered her to the camp. After seeing her there, Tyrion ran off to handle the blaze, thinks little to nothing of her in the following hours.

It’s well past sunset when she appears in the city. Tyrion, weary and afraid, nevertheless runs to greet her, shouting whatever report he can give her. She walks alone, eyes fixed on the heart of what was once King’s Landing, where the Red Keep once stood, and seems not to hear him. He watches, mouth agape, as she strides further and further in, past all the ash and frantic soldiers trying to put out the city. She marches through the blazes to where he can’t follow. No one can follow her.

Not sure what to do or think, he focuses back on directing the forces. Any pause, any contemplation promise only a pain even more searing than the fires around them. He just coughs and blinks against the smoke, shouts, points, and tries to keep people moving.

Many have simply fled, especially since the green flames were put out and the city was contained, so many of the deserters were sure that the fire would not follow them. Many Dothraki scatter in all directions. Tyrion tries not to think about it.

Varys is gone. Tyrion’s not sure whether or not he’s dead. He hopes not.

The Red Keep burned and collapsed. Does the Iron Throne even still exist? Can wildfire melt something forged by Dragon Flame?

 _What now?_ He wonders. Then he regrets it. There’s no way of knowing. Chaos reigns. Fire and blood.

Tyrion loathed this city, with its stink, its easily-swayed mobs and preachers speaking of demon monkeys. And yet, much like his father, he’d yearned for it. For control of it, the way he yearned for Tywin’s love and acceptance. Both desires are lost to him.

It stinks even more, burning as it does. He has to keep blinking against the soot, squinting to see. His throat feels like it’s being shredded, for in between hacking and coughing, he must yell to direct the men.

Eventually, though, it becomes too much for him, and the world goes black.

It’s five days later when he comes to. A maester informs him of this as the Lannister blinks and adjusts to consciousness. It takes him a while to notice the looming figure just feet from his bedside. Vhago, one of Daenerys’s bloodriders, stands with his massive arms folded. Tyrion practically jumps out of his skin.

“Khaleesi calls for you.”

Tyrion swallows. “The last I saw of her---”

“The flames are gone. She refuses to leave the throne room, and turns all but a few away,” Maester Dormer informs him. He’s younger than most who possess a chain: still apple cheeked. But his eyes are those of one who has seen great horror.

“Did _any_ survive?”

“No one has taken count of the soldiers---”

“--- _Not the soldiers!”_ Tyrion snaps, “The city folk!”

“Your sister barred the gates, though some, through more clandestine routes, escaped the city. Some of the court managed to flee beforehand.”

Tyrion couldn’t give a flying fuck about the court. It’s not that he thinks the commonfolk are somehow intrinsically better than those sniggering, sniveling, silk-clad sycophants. The crofters and urchins and whores of King’s Landing’s streets were just as eager to shout “Demon Monkey!” and throw dung his way as any of the highborn. The difference was: the highborn had a voice, had choices, had means to be heard. The average peasant, well… Shouting “Demon Monkey!” was the closest they got.

“Let me guess. The courtiers are the majority of those who got out via those clandestine routes.”

“At first, yes. The best guides escorted the highest bidders. But many of the smugglers and such began filing out as many as they could, particularly the children. A number of Crownlands lords and ladies have offered sanctuary and sent aid. I myself serve House Hayford, my lord. Lady Ermesande’s regent, Lord Hamish, dispatched me.”

Tyrion looks at Dormer a bit more closely. “So they’ve bent the knee to Daenerys?”

“They’ve bent the knee to no one, my lord. Even if they wished to, the Dragon Queen refuses all callers but two of her bloodriders and, of course, you. But as far as Lord Hamish and, I believe, many of the lords and ladies who have sent aid believe that is not relevant at the moment. There is only one lord who has shown a personal interest in contacting any member of your queen’s court. In fact, he wished to speak to you soon. A Lord Stokeworth?”

Tyrion’s mind does a couple of somersaults, then his stomach as well. Bronn’s face springs to mind. “Where is he?”

“It is not important now!” Vhago exclaims, coming closer to the cot, “Khaleesi calls for you!”

Stomach sinking and limbs still aching, Tyrion relents and has Dormer help him into some clothing. To his fury, Vhago lifts him onto his shoulders like a child and carries him out, ignoring his protests.

Tyrion’s cries die in his throat when he sees what lay in the distance. Much of the smoke is dissipated, and in the distance there is a black, dead ruin of what was once King’s Landing, the Blackwater blacker than ever.

“Where are the dragons?” He asks, noticing their absense.

“Khaleesi sent them away.”

He is quiet and mourning as Vhago carries him. As they enter the city proper, he shudders. There are pillars of ash, of soot. Of melted stone. Places that were once houses, once forges, once merchant halls, once brothels he visited. Once _people_.

A thought occurs to them as they get closer to Aegon’s Hill. “Has Varys been found?”

“The Spider is still gone.”

Tyrion quietly rages. _You did this, Varys. You’re the reason she got those bloody dragons. You fostered this madness with your plots. You built her up. Is this what you call ‘serving the realm’? You leave me to face this alone._

Living people still mill about the city, trying to organize the ruin to make it safer to traverse. Maegor’s Holdfast is half-way intact, the Tower of the Hand gone completely. But the core of the building: the throne room… The ceiling and windows are gone, but some of the walls remain. Enough to almost be a room. Vhago knocks on a pillar that once flanked the front gates four times. Tyrion peers in through the opening, looking for his queen.

A mound of grey near the half-wrecked steps of the royal dais stirs and turns, and Tyrion almost doesn’t recognize her. Daenerys Targaryen was always a small woman who stood tall regardless, with her blinding silver-gold hair and proud profile. She is clad only in ashes, which coat every inch, and her hair---

That beautiful Valyrian hair is cut. Hacked to fall unevenly about her ears. She sits amidst the rubble, only somewhat elevated, shoulders hunched, knees to her chest, hands gripping them.

She gives a command in Dothraki and Vhago carries Tyrion closer, sets him down at the foot of the steps, then leaves. Daenerys waits until the Dothraki rider is gone, and holds up a hand for silence.

She licks cracked lips and coughs. It’s clears she’s not spoken for days.

Tyrion notices for the first time a giant mound of scorched meat behind his queen, then sees the marked around her mouth where juices and blood disrupted the coating of ash.  She’s been eating, at least. And there’s a wineskin by her side.

There’s also a stench in a corner. The corner where the entrance to the Small Council Chamber used to be. Fitting, really. But Tyrion suppresses the smirk. Now is not the time for wit.

The queen is eating and drinking, so she has not entirely given up. She is defeated, but not destroyed. And Tyrion isn’t sure how he feels about that.

After several coughs and grunts, she finally says something. “When do you think it was,” she asks, “That I truly lost the war?”

“Your Grace, I-”

“Perhaps I could have never won. Perhaps all was truly lost the day my brother and I fled across the Narrow Sea. When I was raised in the East, not here. Forever foreign. Perhaps it was when I fully embraced being the Great Khal, and I solidified a foreign army. When I lost Viserion, perhaps? Or when I lost the Greyjoys, the Sands, and the Tyrells. But they were never really mine, were they? The Sands and Tyrells wanted revenge and were courted by Varys, not me. The Greyjoys wanted their home back and their uncle dead. They were never really my subjects, were they?”

Tyrion cringes. “Well, you granted the Greyjoys---”

“---Independence, yes.” She swallows. “It seemed such a small thing. The Iron Islands. Just a collection of rocks.”

There’s a short silence, which she breaks.

“I used to scoff at my brother Viserys believing that swill about the smallfolk secretly sewing dragon banners and praying for a return of our House. But I ended up doing the same. Seven Hells… There aren’t even Seven Realms anymore. There weren’t when I arrived. The North and the Vale… Gods, I don’t even know when that happened.”

“It’s complicated. The North and the Trident declared themselves independent and Robb Stark their king after Lord Eddard was executed. The Vale stayed neutral. We thought we’d conquered House Stark, and we recaptured the North and Trident, secured the Vale, but I guess while my sister was busy with that nonsense with the Faith and the Tyrells, the Starks allied with the Vale and retook it.”

“There was a King in the North before Jon?”

Tyrion nods. “Jon Snow’s half-brother.” He sighs and gives a summary of all that transpired between Jon Arryn’s death and Daenerys’s arrival. He then goes back further, and talks about Robert’s Rebellion. It all seems so surreal to him. Has he lived so long, to have been alive through so much? He feels old.

“...That’s what he meant in the caves…” Daenerys shuts her eyes for a moment. “But before that… Before my father… My family… We reigned and Westeros had peace and prosperity for-”

And something within Tyrion Lannister finally snaps. He can’t help it. These are things that children of six learn in the schoolroom. And she has _no idea._

“NO!” He shouts, unable to take it anymore. “Aegon’s Conquest killed millions! Thousands more died in the Faith Uprising! More under Maegor the Cruel! There were the multiple conquests of Dorne! Fifty thousand died under Daeron the Young Dragon’s Conquest alone! The Dance of the Dragons was the bloodiest conflict in over a millenia! Aegon the Unworthy killed so many through corruption, then, upon his death, sparked not one, not two, not three, but _four_ Blackfyre Rebellions! And before Robert’s Rebellion, there was the War of the Ninepenny Kings! That’s not counting disasters like the destruction of Summerhall! Your Grace… I am sorry. I truly am, but… Yes, you had Jaehaerys the Conciliator. And the first Aegon did some good. There was greatness under your House, but there was so much destruction and suffering as well. The Reign of the Dragons was no golden age. Westeros… Westeros has been a mess, regardless of what family holds the throne, for a long time.”

“It’s…. It’s the wheel…”

“A wheel your family built!” He confesses, finally. “Or... developed, at least. Things were a mess before Aegon arrived, Your Grace, that’s true. And there were some horrors that ceased when he forged the Iron Throne. But there were so many others that occurred after. Much of them in pursuit of what Aegon had. The city and throne Aegon built is gone, Daenerys! And if anyone is going to ‘break the wheel’, my money is on the Night’s King. He’ll wipe us all out.”

“I… I have to return North.” His heart rises at this statement. But it sinks again upon the next, “I have to rebuild my kingdom.”

“A million people are dead!” Tyrion shouts. “You can’t rebuild them! For the love of the Seven, Woman!” He’s terrified. But his fury outweighs his fear right now. “Forget kingdoms! Forget oaths and ranks and titles for once! You broke the wheel, Daenerys, you have. You’ve done it. It hasn’t brought a better world, because a million souls are lost and the rest shall be soon. There’s no Iron Throne left. No crown left. No Seven Realms left! There’s just these lands and these _people_ . The ones who do care about who is calling themselves a monarch have already chosen another. And it _doesn’t matter!”_

He can’t believe his daring, but he’s come too far to back down now.

“You want to make a better world, there needs to be one left. And… And if at this point you still can’t let go of this being ‘your kingdom’, well… You’ll never build a better one, ever. It’ll just be more of this. And eventually...The whole world will be sick of it. They’ll see this, and fear this being their home, their domains. And they will all rise up and no amount of dragons will save you when they do. You have a fraction of your army remaining. You have two dragons left. You have your life. You have the chance to do something here aside from kill and destroy and claim. So let go of it, for pity’s sake! Or Queen of the Ashes and the Mad Queen will be all you’ll ever be.”

He feels faint now. But he cannot collapse in front of her. She stares at him, shocked. Tyrion lowers his voice.

“I am going back to the camp. If you wish to be more than that, come out, and we will go North together. If you want to see everything you have left go the way of that blasted metal chair, fly off without me. Just be aware that the Northerners have survived this long, against incredible odds, without you. They’ve repelled a dragon already. And they’ve been preparing for you ever since they crowned their new queen. And if you destroy that fortress, the last major Northern defensive hold against the White Walkers, filled with innocent refugees… If you burn them all… Even if you do beat them, I can promise you, that will be your last ‘victory’, because the whole world will not distinguish between you and the Night’s King. And the world will fight for its survival against _both_ of its enemies. And I will help.”

With that, he turns on his heel and stumbles out. She’s silent as he climbs over rubble and journeys out of the hall that once held a throne.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~  


Jon:

Scouts saw them coming miles and miles off. Everyone is practiced and ready. Most of the court --- all civilians --- have been evacuated to the Wolfswood. Men are stationed and at the ready, manning the the trebuchets, the ballistas, the towers. Everyone’s been on high alert, drilled near to death since word of King’s Landing arrived.

He’d rather Sansa not be here, but she is, atop the South-facing gate, in new armor specially made for her, the crown Euron gave her pinned to her brow. She was present when the Night’s King attacked atop his dragon, she shall be present for this.

Well, temporarily. That was the agreement. She’d make an appearance at the beginning, enough for Daenerys to see her. Unbeknownst to the queen, however, after that, Brienne is to grab her and bolt away as fast as she can with Sansa over her shoulder.

Jon stands beside her, ready to issue orders. He blinks against the chilled, winter winds.

“DRAGONS SOUTH!” A lookout shouts. The cry goes up. And indeed, there they are in the distance, flying right towards them. Instinctively, he tries to position himself in front of his cousin. He’s not the only one. Brienne, Davos, and Willam all do the same. She pushes them aside impatiently.

The Ballistas are primed.

They asked Bran --- in the Wolfswood with the others --- what he foresaw. But he got conflicting visions, he said. One moment it was victorious, the next, disastrous. He saw them all live. He saw them all die. It changed almost from hour to hour.

The good news was that Daenerys’s army has dwindled. They know that much. The major threat is the dragons, and if they are able to at least incapacitate them, well… They have the Golden Company. They have the Ironborn. They have all the armies of the North, Vale, Trident, and Freefolk. And they have the home field.

It could be enough.

Jon glances at Brienne. The Lady Knight must be ready.

As the dragons draw nearer, they see the army approach --- drastically smaller, as it turns out. Jon shivers at the thought of what the Crownlands must looks like for this much damage to occur.

But that turns out not to be the most shocking thing they see.

“ _RIDER! WHITE FLAG!”_

And indeed, there is not a horse, but a pony, with a single armed rider, carrying a white flag, hurtling towards the gate. Sansa meets Jon’s eye. This was also possibility. They prepared for this. Likely whatever message the emissary carried would just be more of “Kneel or die”, but they had to hold out some hope. Show some decency and honor.

On the queen’s word, two riders charge out to meet the messenger and escort him back to the gate. The portcullis is raised just enough for the three to duck under it and get in. Or, rather, for two of them to duck.

“That can’t be---” Ser Jaime says, sounding stunned.

“...Tyrion.”

The younger son of Casterly Rock is escorted directly to them, atop the gate. Tyrion’s helmet is removed, and he dons gilded armor with a Lannister lion engraved across the breastplate. He walks nervously, occasionally glancing out onto the Targaryen army in the distance. Jon notices there are Lannister flags among the banners. And a few others, actually. Some he recognizes --- House Swann and House Hightower are easy enough to guess at, and there is the famous burning tree of the Marbrands. But so many others.

Tyrion approaches Sansa, he bows, he kisses her hand.

“Queen Sansa,” he says, causing multiple gasps at his use of the title, “I, Tyrion of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the Queen, come to you on behalf of Her Grace Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of Dragon’s Bay, Queen of Central Westeros, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Princess of Dragonstone, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, to forge an alliance.”

Jon’s heart skips a beat. “Central Westeros”, not “of the Seven Kingdoms”, not “of the Andals and the First Men”, not “Westeros.” Still, though…

“...With?” Sansa asks, more a prompt than an inquiry. She wants to hear Tyrion say it.

“With Her Grace Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen of the Three Realms of Winter, the North, the Trident, and the Vale, Queen Consort of the Iron Islands, Ruler of the First Men, Lady of Winterfell, Harrenhal, and the Dreadfort, and Protector of the Realm.”

“On what terms?” Sansa asks.

“Full military support and aid from both parties against the Night’s King and the White Walkers, a mutual assurance between the forces of Winter and Central Westeros for aid against future invaders for the next fifty years, mutual agreement from both parties to relinquish any and all claims of sovereignty or ownership of any and all titles, lands, fiefdoms, and populations already claimed by the other, acknowledgement of each queen’s respective titles, rank, and domain by the other, assured friendship and support in matters of trade, transportation, diplomacy, and border protection between the two realms ---terms of which to be settled by negotiation upon the conclusion of the conflict with the White Walkers, shelter and support of Queen Daenerys’s forces while they are stationed in your realm during the War for the Dawn, with assurance of her peoples’ safety, and the safe return of Ser Jorah of House Mormont.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “Let’s say I agree and open my gates, what’s to stop your queen from storming my castle and burning us all alive? What assurance do I have that she’d honor such a contract?”

“Because any and all domain she may claim within central Westeros is contingent upon her honoring her word. As of now, the support of all Westeros Houses currently among her ranks are not officially sworn to her. In fact, all of them are primed to immediately turn on and attack her remaining forces should she attack Winterfell. They outnumber what’s left of her army and are primed to defend Westeros, Winterfell included, from the Mad King’s Daughter if she acts… like the Mad King’s Daughter.”

 _She already has,_ Jon wants to snap. _A million people…_

But Sansa considers this. “I have a couple of conditions of my own.”

Tyrion’s mouth twitches. “I believe the terms are more than generous-”

“-We gave her our fealty and she abandoned us. Now she wants us to shelter her battered forces and help her keep whatever parts of Westeros she can still cling to under her control. I have conditions and ballistas primed and ready to fire at her ‘children.’”

The Lannister sighs. “And they are?”

“First, she, her dragons, and her army are to depart for the Dreadfort immediately. They will be accommodated there. She may return, with an adequate armed guard and neither of her dragons, to negotiate here in no less than three days. I’ll give her Ser Jorah as a token of goodwill, and grant her and her army conditional protection and amnesty in the North. Second, the treaty we sign will be drafted by Northern scribes as well as her own, and two copies, one for each party, are to be signed by both parties with the other present. Third, I want the latest draft of whatever treaty you’ve already drawn up for my advisors and I to examine. Fourth, you are to inform her of this by letter, to be delivered by Ser Jorah, and remain here until we receive a written agreement, signed by your queen. After that, you are guaranteed a safe return to her ranks. The other conditions can be settled when Queen Daenerys arrives here. But those are the terms of any negotiation.”

Tyrion nods nervously. They briefly adjourn to an inner chamber to draw up a letter, and Ser Jorah is dispatched within the hour. A dragon is seen descending to the ground shortly after, and a couple hours after that, a raven arrives. Sansa opens it in the Great Hall and bristles.

“She demands Jon escort her to the Dreadfort! Were the months she held him hostage at Dragonstone not enough?!”

“Your Grace, Jon is technically her subject-”

“-And my family!”

There’s a furious bloom in her cheeks, and it’s not just from the cold. His heart skips a beat at the sight of her anguish.

Nevertheless, he steps forward. “I’ll go.”

She’s horrified. “Jon, no, you don’t need to-”

“-I do. And I will. Nothing you say will change that.”

His cousin grits her teeth and shuts her eyes. “Fine. On the condition that he return to Winterfell with her for the parlay, and I want the commanders of the Marbrand and Hightower forces delivered to me.”

More ravens are exchanged. An agreement is made. And Jon suits up in his chambers, mentally preparing himself for this reunion.

But he can’t. Will Daenerys expect affection when they see one another again? Will she demand it? Will she be hostile towards him for not denouncing Sansa?

Jon believed that beneath that fiery, proud, entitled exterior, Daenerys still had a good heart. But then he learned that she burned men in cold blood, then she abandoned thousands of desperate people and broke her promise to pursue her own ambitions, and then she killed a million people. Once, she had a good heart, perhaps. Now he suspects that she merely wants to think she has one.

Normally, this proposal of hers would signify true growth on her part, but he’s too burned by her to take that at face value. For all he knows, he’s going to be her hostage. For all he knows, she’s going to burn Winterfell to the ground once she has him and Tyrion. For all he knows, she’s planning something for when she returns to settle the treaty.

If she expects love, should he play along, just to find out what she’s up to, if anything? Can he possibly fake it again? Would she believe it, after his defiance of her orders? He’s walking into a trap, surely.

But if it can keep Sansa and Bran safe… He’ll die for that.

There’s a knock on the door.

Jon isn’t entirely surprised to see Sansa enter his chambers. He waits patiently for her to give him instructions or a vial of poison or whatever as he bars the door behind her.

What he doesn’t expect is that when he turns away from the door, that she would throw herself into his arms.

“I’m not sure I can let you go!” She cries, tears pouring from her eyes. “She can’t have you! She can’t!”

It’s as if he’s forgotten everything that’s happened over the last year, barring the fact that he’s not her brother in that moment. This may be the last time he ever sees her. So he cups her cheek.

“She never will, not truly. The rest of me may go, but my heart remains here,” Jon tells her softly.

And it’s there, just for a moment. A flicker. And… he knows.

His mouth goes dry. His heart pounds. And he’s not so sure he’s prepared to die anymore.

It’s there.

The world stands still.

But he needs to hear her say it.

“I don’t care if you love Willam,” Jon says, “I don’t care if it’s wrong. I don’t care if there’s no future in it. Just tell me, Sansa. Tell me now. Even if you love Willam more, I don’t care. Do you love me at all? Yes or no. Just tell me.”

She shuts her eyes and slowly nods. “I can’t promise you anything, Jon. I’m so sorry. I…” She takes a deep breath, looks into his eyes, then kisses him.

The frozen world around them seems to disintegrate. There’s no Night’s King. No Winterfell. No Daenerys. No Westeros. No winter. It’s warm. And there’s just them.

He clings to her even as their lips part, and he gasps, waiting for the inevitable, painful words she’ll say next.

“...That will likely be all I’ll ever be able to give you, Jon. And perhaps it was more cruel than kind. I probably shouldn’t have done that. I’m probably a terrible person, if only for what I just did. But… promise me… Bring Ghost with you. Don’t leave him behind again. Let him protect you.”

“Right,” Jon says, finally letting go. “You don’t need me to protect you.”

_But I will. Whatever it takes, I will._

She escorts him to the gates, and he receives a surprisingly fond farewell from court as he mounts his horse. The portcullis rises. Tyrion and his pony are beside him, facing Daenerys’s party.

“You’ve brought the wolf,” Tyrion notes, eyeing the massive beast that stands to Jon’s other side.

“I intend to make a habit of it from now on,” Jon replies. The horns sound, signaling the beginning of the exchange. Jon blinks against the icy winds and urges his stead forward towards the Dragon’s den.  
  


**End of Part One**

  
  
  



	9. White Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years after striking a peace, three queens converge for a new wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so sorry for the wait. A combination of health issues and computer problems made this a bitch to finish. 
> 
> This takes place after a time skip. I'm only going to allude to a few things here. More on the intervening events will be fleshed out and woven through the proceedings as a sort of experiment of mine.
> 
> Thanks as always to my awesome beta israfel!

Jon:

Even though he knows better, as he leads Sansa towards the Heart Tree, he can’t help but look at Willam Manderly and think, _It should be me._

Not that that makes any sense whatsoever. He has been the Lord Commander of the newly reinstated Queensguard for two years now. And that was the only way that he was able to get out of marrying Daenerys alive. When Rhaegal greeted Jon with a friendly nudge, something finally seemed to click in the Dragon Queen’s head. She’d once attributed Jon’s apparent connection with her dragons as a result of their love, but by the time Jon strode into her camp, she knew the facts. They were never in love. At least, he wasn’t.

The negotiations had been uneasy to say the least. Daenerys suspected that some sort of Northern magic was the explanation, performed by Bran, forcing them to finally confess the truth of his origins.

It put Sansa in the difficult position of trying to appease the Dragon Queen. The Watch was gone, and Jon would rather die than wed his aunt. But his cousin put it a different way, capitalizing on Daenerys’s severely damaged reputation among the lords of the South.

“It would be seen as incest, and between your own family history and the Lannisters… Well, it would not be the right message. You want to create a new world, separate yourself from your forebears. And you could use some more ties to Westeros.”

It helped that the court of Winterfell had received missives from many families in the Reach since the Battle of the Roseroad asking to join the Winter Kingdom. Sansa, at this new point, could have seized the second-largest and most fertile of the Seven Kingdoms for her own domain. An act that would have undoubtedly led to other Southern realms, such as the Stormlands or Dorne, trying the same. Daenerys was officially reviled in the South, all of Cersei’s warnings coming true in the eyes of most of the gentry. Ironically, with sacking King’s Landing, Daenerys handed nearly all of the Seven Kingdoms to the Queen of Winter.

Sansa did not hesitate to exploit this.

She suggested that Daenerys wed a gentleman from a powerful family in the South and, before anyone knew it, Ser Garth “Greysteel” of House Hightower was summoned. Daenerys regained the Reach by wedding Ser Garth and naming House Hightower the new Lords Paramount of the Reach, Lords of Highgarden, and Wardens of the South. Another match was arranged between Talla Tarly, the new Lady of Horn Hill, and Ser Hobber Redwyne, second son of the Lord of the Arbor, with Daenerys funding the new Lady Tarlywyne’s dowry as restitution for the loss of Lord Randyll and Ser Dickon.

With the Reach and the Westerlands secured, it was easy to convince the Stormlands, Dorne, and the rest of the Crownlands to fall in step through a combination of new concessions and intimidation engineered by Lord Tyrion, Lord Hightower, and the Queen of Winter.

Of course, all this help came with a price. With the exception of Harrenhal, which was ceded to Daenerys as her new capital as a gesture of good faith, the Kingdom of Winter was declared free and independent with the barest of conditions--- after the Night’s King was defeated, if the lords of the North, Trident, and/or Vale decided they wished to follow Daenerys after all, Sansa would step down and settle, as her ancestor Torrhen Stark once did, as Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount and Warden of the North.

The same condition was made, on King Euron’s behalf, by his wife, who had been granted signed and sigiled permission from her sea-bound husband to do so.

Not that Euron’s permission ended mattering too much. Three moons after the new agreement was signed, word came that Iron King Euron had drowned, leaving his niece and First Mate, Princess Yara, as his heir. There was no Kingsmoot this time --- nearly all of the Ironborn had basically been serving under Princess Yara’s orders for months by then and were too consumed by the White Walker threat to care about her sex. Thus, Sansa Stark became Dowager Queen of the Iron Islands.

he whole of Westeros went from a War of Five Kings to an uneasy alliance of three queens. And it was uneasy. Daenerys had tried, at the beginning of her negotiations with Sansa, to threaten fire and fury if the Winter Queen did not bend the knee. The Queen of Winter and her vassals, flanking her, called this bluff, reminding the Dragon Queen of her dwindled army, lack of allies, scores of revolts, and the fact that one of her dragons had already been injured by Northern defenses by a far-less equipped castle than Winterfell.

It was plainly put to her that not only was Winterfell the only fortress that had successfully repelled an Ice Dragon siege, but that it was a) the last major stronghold this far North and the strongest in the country and b) that it was surrounded and filled with innocent refugees. If she attacked them, even if she did win, she would make herself the horror and enemy of not just Westeros, but the entire world. No major foreign power would be able to sit still after witnessing such ruthlessness and conquest. Every lord would ally against her to protect their own domains, and every one of their smallfolk would fight enthusiastically to protect themselves from the woman who burn millions of common innocents alive.

“If the Night’s King doesn’t destroy you,” Sansa had said calmly, refilling her cup of cider, “The rest of the world will. Even if you do defeat the Night’s King, people won’t see you as a savior, but the latest monster to replace the last one.”

The refugees’ presence, it seemed, protected Winterfell as much as Winterfell protected them. Thus, trembling with fury, the Dragon Queen was forced to submit. Her army was too dwindled, her allies nonexistent, her “kingdom” too unstable, her reputation too ruined, her dragons too fallible.

But out of spite, perhaps, she did insist on “keeping” Jon. “If not as husband, as my Queensguard.”

Sansa briefly mentioned that such an act would disinherit her only viable heir, but Daenerys was intractable.  And she set another condition.

“You are not with child, Queen Sansa,” she said, practically spitting as she gave voice to her rival’s title, “You’d be showing by now if you were. Your husband is far away and will not return to you for a good, long time. So I insist that you abstain from producing an heir to the Winter Kingdom and the Iron Islands until I have my own child.”

This, of course, had to be amended. Tyrion had to convince Daenerys that this was unreasonable, given her lack of heirs thus far. It was a definite mistake on the Dragon Queen’s part, as it brought the issue of her fertility to the forefront. Realizing her mistake, Daenerys agreed to change the condition to waiting until the birth of her own heir, or two year’s time, whichever came first.

To that, Sansa reluctantly agreed, under the condition of Jon’s safety and Daenerys’s vow to honor the desires of the Ironborn and Winter Kingdom.  Sansa tried to argue for Jon’s return, but he made the decision after speaking with the Dragon Queen. Weak as she was, they need her dragons, and their own defenses against the enemy could only last so long. Daenerys threatened to abandon them all. Jon volunteered to remain with her to keep her from doing that and keep her mercurial temper quelled.

When they met, Daenerys made it clear that she did not look kindly on the Starks harboring a "pretender" whilst laying claim to half of Westeros as well. "I can still burn this place. Take you all down with me. Don't think I won't."

Jon knows what happened in King's Landing, he's not a fool. 

There were... other reasons, ones that had much to do with this particular day, in fact, that he agreed.

In the end, Sansa couldn’t stop him.

After news of “Euron’s” death arrived, the agreement was altered again --- Sansa would not remarry for two years or when Daenerys produced an heir.

It was Tyrion who caught that, actually, arguing that in the actual agreement, it was said that Sansa and King Euron would not produce an heir _to the Winter Kingdom and Iron Islands_ during that time. But any children produced by Sansa following Euron’s death would have no claim to the Salt Throne, thus leaving the Queen of Winter free to remarry and reproduce whenever she wished. Daenerys seized upon this, of course, and the new agreement had to be made to rectify it.

Even united, with two dragons, the Northern defenses, and Bran’s greenseeing, the war has been difficult. The White Walkers eventually overtook the entirety of The Gift and sections of the Northern Tribes and Last Hearth. Daenerys had three separate periods of failed or imagined pregnancy, taking her out of commission and, during the first period, her dragons as well until she relented and allowed Jon to ride and command them. Jon struggled with this for moons until finally becoming properly adept.

The Night’s King diverted his prized steed from attacks on land to ones on the fleets, doing massive damage to both their naval power and the North’s means of transportation. Many vessels that weren’t destroyed were often seized and taken over, their crews turned to wights commanded by the Walkers. Queen Yara barely escaped with her life.

All the while, winter has worsened. The foreign, eastern armies of Daenerys and the Golden Company and the Northern troops introduced new diseases to one another that the other forces were unsuited to withstand. Civilians were affected as well.

With the Enemy gaining naval might, however, foreign powers began to take notice as their own merchant and pirate fleets were attacked. Foreign aid finally began to arrive, with even the Iron Bank pledging support to the Wintermen and Ironborn.

There are conditions, of course. The Iron Bank has given to the Wintermen and Ironborn but refused to give funds to the Queen in the South. And indeed, it seems some foreign powers have taken a certain level of pleasure in avoiding and ignoring giving aid to Daenerys while being generous with the other queens.

One was Queen Missandei of the renamed Freedom Bay. She, her Grand General Grey Worm, and the Unsullied that they led from Westeros, were given passage back to “Dragon’s Bay” by Ironborn ships, at the direct order of King Euron. After seizing back the three cities of the Harpy from outside slaver powers through a bloody revolt, Queen Missandei constructed a whole new fleet of ships as one of her first acts as queen. A hundred of the four hundred she had built were adorned with golden krakens and sailed straight for Westeros with a letter in which the Queen expressed sympathies to Queen Yara and Queen Sansa for losing an uncle and husband, respectively, with no mention made of Daenerys.

The new government of Qarth have sent men, food, supplies, and ships to White Harbor and Pyke, along with expensive gifts for Queens Yara and Sansa. The Maegyr family of Volantis have sent funds to their daughter’s good-sister. Even the pirates of the Stepstones have contributed. The only foreign government that has sent aid explicitly to Daenerys has been Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos. And only once.

Two years have passed, and despite the tireless efforts of the Dragon Queen, she has not produced an heir. Her mourning period up, Sansa used this as an opportunity to gain more material aid from their allies, betrothing herself on the spot to Ser Willam and sending announcements and invitations to all the Great Houses of the Free Cities, Qarth, and Freedom Bay along with personalized notes to particular recipients.

Four score Myrish glassworkers soon arrived to construct new gardens in various keeps throughout the North, while Queen Missandei sent soils, fertilizers, and seeds. The Triarchs of Ly sent countless bolts of silk, all of which were made into tents, bandages, and clothing. Merchant contacts Ser Willam had made during his time as a trade captain were invited. A Qartheen delegate arrived, announcing that his fair city was suffering a horrible drought and inquired about conducting a trade deal for Northern ice.

Everyone knows at this point that Winterfell is the stronghold that stands between them and facing the White Walkers themselves. Sansa has made sure no one forgets it. And so…

This wedding is actually fairly respectable as a result. Less fine or grand than her last wedding, but surprisingly tasteful considering. They have decent food and wine, at least, and Sansa has a new gown.

It’s of silver-grey Lysene silk with narrow sleeves and a high collar, lined with white rabbit’s fur and with Myrish lace with a snowflake pattern running along her bodice, waist, and hem. Sansa deliberately used both fabrics to show appreciation and friendship to their Lysene and Myrish allies. To compliment their Volantene allies, she dons a white-gold belt studded with blue opals from the Maegyrs. Her Maiden’s cloak is of the same fabrics as her gown, with the lace lining the entirety of the silk. Hanging from her ears are sapphires from Qarth and she wears the coronet Euron gifted her as a sign of respect to the Ironborn.

Most of the expense of the wedding, however, has been the wine, cider, fresh bread, and preserves handed out to the smallfolk on this day, along with new cloaks of Northern wool.

Over the years, the refugee camps surrounding Winterfell have expanded and developed. The camps now reach Wintertown proper, and actual buildings and roads have been constructed. Bartering and supply shipments have led to a proper economy developing, with many refugees choosing to remain here as opposed to traveling south. The commonfolk, many of them from far-off, different areas of the North, including Free Folk, bound together by similar brushes with danger, desperation, a common enemy, and proximity, have developed a legitimate sense of community. Shortly after the treaty with Daenerys was signed, the first wedding between a Wildling man and a Northern woman was celebrated. Sansa and Arya, newly returned from her secret mission, attended and blessed the new couple. Inter-marrying and trade was encouraged.

At this point, the camps are more like a proper city, albeit without the same level of structures. The camp areas have been nicknamed Winterfell City and, if Jon has properly interpreted some hints dropped by Sansa and Ser Willam, they intend to make sure that becomes more than a nickname.

Citizens of “Winterfell City” that have risen to prominence among the community attend the wedding itself today, mingling among the lords and ladies. The crowd is bigger than any Jon’s seen in the Godswood.

Among their guests are the two other queens. Yara Greyjoy, who herself wed a common man named Qarl a year prior, smiles pleasantly, hands wrapped about a swollen belly, her husband at her side. Daenerys is nearby, a false grin fixed on her face, her violet eyes narrow and furious. She is covered in red and gold brocade, dripping with black amethysts, glittering almost as much as the snow.

Arya and Bran are at the base of the tree with Ser Willam, his father Ser Hothar, and Lord Manderly. The fat Lord of White Harbour sticks out his chest and beams with pride. Ser Hothar, who, aside from his eyes shows little resemblance to his son, smiles, but looks slightly less thrilled. Ser Hothar arrived at Winterfell expecting that his son would be the first king of the royal house of Manderly. He was none too pleased when the reality was explained. Willam would become a “Prince Consort”, much as Ser Garth Greysteel and Qarl had when they wed Daenerys and Yara. Their children would be Starks, as would the name of the Royal House.

It had taken Lord Manderly himself taking his youngest brother out to the hall outside the Great Hall  and slapping him with a force that could be heard from within the hall to silence the Manderly knight’s complaints.

Arya, and Bran wear altered versions of the clothes they wore for the last wedding. Jon wears his Queensguard armor: blackened plate mail with the three-headed Targaryen dragon emblazoned on the breastplate and his white cloak.

For once, there is only a light snowfall, and the sun is out for its precious two hours of a winter day.

And Jon wants to be happy. He should be happy. Sansa looks overjoyed. And as hard as it is to admit it: Ser Willam is exactly the sort of man she deserves. He has not left her side since the war began, though his courage is not in question. He captains the defenses of Winterfell itself, and has personally faced the enemy and driven them from the castle walls. He has helped Sansa manage her castle and kingdom, never overstepping, but always ready to aid her with a good idea or tasks completed.

And he does love her. When his place as consort was explained to him, he did not react as his father did. He just shrugged. He never expected to be king or name a new royal dynasty. He treats Sansa like she’s the sun, constantly revolving about her, never taking her light for granted.

He’s been everything to Sansa that Jon wishes he could be.

Jon’s stomach turns as they near the tree. And the queries are made. Who comes before the Gods?

“Jon of House Stark and House Targaryen, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, brings before the gods Sansa of House Stark, Queen of Winter, Dowager Queen of the Iron Islands, Lady of Winterfell and the Dreadfort, a widow trueborn and noble, to be wed. Who claims this woman?”

“Ser Willam of House Manderly, trueborn and unwed, have come to take this woman to wife.”

Jon hesitates and, wincing, turns to Sansa. “Do you take this man for your husband?”

Sansa’s eyes blinking against the cold and fixed not on Jon, but on her bridegroom. “I do.”

Jon releases her and clenches his teeth as he watches them kiss. Willam wraps his arms about his bride and swings her around as their lips join. Her skirts flare out beautifully. Everyone cheers.

He’s going to die in this war, he’s almost certain of it. And perhaps he should. It seems that’s what he’s here to do. The actual face-to-face combat with this Enemy seems to be the one thing he’s succeeded at unfailingly. The one thing he hasn’t mucked up. What will anyone need of him after this war is won? Guard Daenerys? He’s not sure he’s up to such a task. Will he ever be able to properly guard a person he despises? She’s made it clear that upon the Night’s King’s defeat, they will depart for Harrenhal and he will stay there, never to see his family or home again. And he loathes her for that.

He swore a vow and yet… He looks at Jaime Lannister, currently cheering with the rest. That man slew Aerys the Mad to keep King’s Landing from burning. Daenerys and Cersei have seen to that. Many now believe that the Dragon Queen has been tamed, but if she has, Jon fears it may only be temporary.

Daenerys has dropped hints. Disturbing ones about “further convincing” the people of Winter to choose her over Sansa when the war is done. Thus far, fear is all that seems to keep her in check. She spends many an hour pacing, muttering to herself about traitors, birthrights, fire, and blood. About how Ser Garth has failed to give her an heir. Tyrion, Jon, and various threats have kept her in check for the last two years. Even Daenerys registers the extremity of their situation.

But what happens when that threat is vanquished? Such a victory, regardless of how it is accomplished, may restore her belief in her unparalleled might and right as a “savior” to rule all. And if that happens...

Jon watches the wedding feast. He watches as Ser Willam spins a laughing Sansa about the Great Hall. He spots Daenerys, her false joy fading away from her face, occasionally shooting her husband angry looks.

Jon wavers between pity and annoyance when it comes to Prince Garth. The man traveled to the Dreadfort two years ago with a cocky smirk, a rather glorious beard, and a chest full of Black amethysts and rubies for his new bride. Word got out that in private, he’d taken to describing himself as “the Dragon Tamer.”

The Hightower knight showered his new bride in flattery, as if the whole of his country didn’t see her more or less as a homicidal maniac. And whatever reservations the knight may have had in regards to her reputation seemed to subside after he saw her.

Daenerys is small and exceptionally beautiful with her big, violet eyes, pouting lips, and silver-gold ringlets. At the time that the couple met, Daenerys’s hair was still growing back and was at a rather girlish length that made her look especially innocent.

It’s not just that Daenerys is absurdly beautiful, Jon has come to realize. It’s that she’s small and has the sort of youthful features that easily make a person let their guards down. There’s been a sort of experiment Jon has conducted over the last two years where he has asked other people about Daenerys and Sansa.

Jon asked people which of the queens was older. Almost every single person he asked, regardless of age, nationality, or opinion of the ladies’ beauty, though Sansa was the elder. Even Tyrion, who had known both women for a very long time, was married to Sansa, knew the queens’ respective ages took a second to answer and sounded almost surprised when he correctly stated that Daenerys was four years Sansa’s senior.

One of the things Jon noticed in how people approached his cousin these days was that nobody underestimated her or treated her as an innocent girl anymore. Whether they liked the Queen of Winter or not, everyone took her seriously. While people who were introduced to Daenerys often showed some surprise that _this_ was really legendary Mother of Dragons, people who met Sansa for the first time never showed the slightest doubt that the woman they were speaking to was the Queen of Winter who had repelled a siege by an Ice Dragon.

Even people who might have expressed some doubt of Sansa’s accomplishments based on prior experience knowing her in the Red Keep soon dropped all doubts the moment they actually encountered her. Some might be stunned by how she’s grown, but they did not doubt her accomplishments anymore.

And yet with Daenerys, despite having sacked numerous cities, despite commanding two immense dragons, despite her hand in the destruction of King’s Landing, despite her reputation as a ruthless conqueror… people often tended to look around upon meeting her for the first time, as if searching for the _real_ Breaker of Chains.

And Jon figured out what it was. Daenerys isn’t just exquisitely pretty, she’s small. And while she can express and communicate great menace when she wishes, she regularly just seems so very young and vulnerable. Unless she decides to make threats, even when expressing confidence, she comes off as an innocent, misguided woman-child, embarrassingly ignorant on some respects, in over her head, and non-threatening. Her tiny stature, girlish pout, and round eyes are just too young-seeming. Her clumsy grasp of etiquette, history, customs, and politics only emphasize this. It’s all too easy to forget that she’s a fiery agent of chaos.

Altogether, Daenerys comes off as a child. A dangerous child, but a child nonetheless.

Thus, Ser Garth arrived to greet his bride and, upon seeing how easily she responded to his flattery, believed he could control her. He laughed somewhat when Daenerys demanded he shave his beard and mustache, laughter dying in his eyes when his new bride pointedly looked at Jon and declared that she’d lost her taste for bearded men. Ser Garth relented, removing his gloriously thick brown beard before the wedding to reveal a slightly weak chin beneath. As long as he played along with Daenerys’s whims, he figured, he could control her.

Only later did he realize that while someone could manipulate Daenerys for a period of time, no one could truly _control_ her.

Dragons cannot be tamed.

Prince Garth Greysteel has lost some weight over the last two years, and fastidiously has his face shaved twice a day. He volunteered for numerous assignments in the field.

Not that the Prince Consort of the south was just someone to pity. For two years now, he’s been engaged in a petty battle with Tyrion over who is the “highest” gentleman in the kingdom: Royal Consort or Hand. Tyrion at first seemed to relent, uninterested in the fight, until Greysteel started using his status to undermine and try to supercede Tyrion. Greysteel loathed his wife’s Hand, seemingly out of a combination of jealousy, distaste for dwarfs, and hatred of House Lannister.

Daenerys, much like her ancestor Viserys, flip-flopped on the issue, sometimes declaring her husband the social superior, other times favoring Tyrion. It was exhausting.

Still, Jon cannot help but pity the man. It’s clear that despite all evidence to the contrary, Daenerys has decided Garth is to blame for their lack of heirs. And it’s clear that this event has only exacerbated her fury with him. She makes a show of flirting with other men, only paying attention to her husband to snap or glare at him.

Once, Ser Garth Greysteel was tasked with overseeing the defense of Oldtown during Ironborn raids. And he was successful, hailed as a hero. Now Prince Garth Greysteel sits, shoulders hunched, bloodshot eyes fixed on his plate.

Except for one moment, in which the poor sod makes an error. A pretty serving woman comes by and fills Prince Garth’s cup. The Prince Consort looks up, nods, and smiles to the lass, and thanks her.

Daenerys sees this. The serving girl moves on, and Jon follows her discreetly, catching her as she exits to the hall outside and grabbing her arm.

“You know who I am?” Jon asks the girl. She’s so very young, barely into her womanhood, probably had her first blood after the war began, with chestnut curls and big, dark eyes.

The wench trembles and nods

“What’s your name, Girl?” He asks, hating the menace he injects into his voice. But he has to scare her.

“L-Lora, my lord.”

“Lora, you are not, under any circumstances, to approach and serve the high table again tonight, understand?”

“But I worked hard to-”

“- _Don’t go near that table!”_ Jon snaps, glaring at her. “Ask another girl to fill in for you and go home for the night. Tell your replacement _not_ to smile at Prince Garth. Understand?”

Tears well up in her eyes, but Lora nods.

Jon releases her arm. “Go now. If I see you back in that hall tonight, I’ll tell Queen Sansa that you were making eyes at the gentlemen, including Prince Willam.”

“But I would nev--”

“--That doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Lora sobs, then flees. Jon returns to the feast, taking a new position just behind his queen and the prince consort.

“Lord Commander, I’d like you to escort my husband back to his chambers and remain with him for the evening,” Daenerys tells him, her voice like acid, “I believe he may have had too much to drink.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Jon yanks Garth out of his chair by the elbow, knowing it will please the queen, and leads him out. Garth goes willingly, but is smart enough to appear too willing. He makes a show of shooting his wife pleading, remorseful looks until the door shuts behind them. Greysteel then relaxes.

“I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” he says mournfully as they walk to the grand guest wing.

“Well, at least now you’ll probably get a break tonight,” Jon suggests. He’s been posted outside Daenerys’s chambers at night enough to know that the Dragon Queen has been unrelenting in her quest to conceive. Most men might think it impossible for a young, hearty, red-blooded man to want or need a “break” from nightly lovemaking with one of the most beautiful women in the world. But Jon is not most men. He knows this from experience.

Miserably, Garth shakes his head. “It never matters how angry she is with me. She just slaps me during. I used to like it. But now… I meant nothing by it, Snow. You know that, right?”

Jon nods. “But if you’re asking me to convince her, I’m not sure anything I say will help. It might make things worse. She might decide I’m conspiring with you behind her back to help you stray from her bed.”

They enter the chambers and Greysteel goes to pour himself a large drink before dropping into an armchair by the fireplace. Jon builds the fire for him. When he’s done, he turns to find Prince Garth blinking back tears.

“I’m not a husband, I’m a hostage. A brood mare.”

Jon sighs and, without even thinking, says, “I imagine how you feel is how a lot of wives feel about their own marriages.”

The thought gives both of them pause, clearly. Garth muses over this. Jon feels a bit shaken, The Prince Consort doesn’t just remind him of any reluctant bride: he reminds Jon of Sansa. The look in the Hightower knight’s eyes is so much like Sansa’s that day at Castle Black when they were huddled by the fire.

Jon can’t fight a war for Garth Greysteel. Or escape with him. And Daenerys is not Ramsay.

Eventually, the Dragon Queen arrives in her chambers. She orders Jon to remain outside to guard their chambers. “I have to remind my husband who he belongs to, and I do not want to be interrupted.”

As Jon waits and tries not to hear what is happening in the bedchamber, he shakes. This cannot go on forever. She will not stop.

He thinks of Jaime Lannister again. Once he wrote that man off as a monstrous, dissolute villain who broke his vows. And that was long before the man tossed Bran out a tower window. What will happen after this enemy is vanquished, when Daenerys rewrites history again to credit herself. What if she decides to remind the North “who they belong to”?

A chill goes down his spine. _I’m a Queensguard. But the one I swore my vows to is not the one I must guard._

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

Arya and Tormund start singing at the top of their lungs, leading the whole hall in filthy, bawdy verses about maidens and Dornishmen and “flowers”. Queen Yara and her husband, Qarl, interrupt the dancing to engage in a “blade dance”, tossing axes between them and capturing the rapt attention of the guests. The Queen of the Ironborn winks at Sansa right before they begin and Sansa grabs Willam’s hand beneath the table.

They wait two minutes, then slip away amidst the cheers and shrieks of the onlookers. They hold hands like nervous virgins and shoot each other bashful looks as they make their way to the bridal chambers. Sansa’s heart pounds as she shuts the door behind them, seizes Willam by his perfect cheekbones, leaps into his arms, and kisses him.

When their lips part for breath ---- Willam stumbling backward towards the bed, Sansa throw her head back and grins. “At long last! A wedding night I _want!”_

Willam laughs as well and falls backwards on the edge of the bed, strewn with blue rose petals. He reaches around and gives her bottom a squeeze before they start unlacing one another’s tops.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Willam tells her as she lifts his doublet over his head, “But now that I am officially supposed to share your bed, I intend to be anything but discreet about it. No more late night, early morning comings and goings, no more hiding, no more tiny notes and ducking behind tapestries. I’m going to _strut_ to these chambers in broad daylight, sometimes carrying you if I feel like it. I’m going to stop to talk to people when I pass them in the halls and tell them where I am headed. I’m going to lounge around these rooms in _at most_ my smallclothes when the maids come in to change the linens. If there’s a knock on the door when we’re in bed together, _I_ will answer and tell them to fuck off. I’m going to rest my hand on your thighs during feasts and grab your bottom when we dance. I’m going to be completely honest with my men whenever I arrive late for drills. And when this---” he pats her belly, “---Begins to swell up, I’m going to beam and _loudly_ brag about how strong _my_ child’s kicks are.”

Sansa reddens. “Wicked man. You’ll have to wait about three moons for that last bit, though. I’m only a month along.”

She stopped taking Moon Tea two moons ago, when their betrothal was announced. And it was as if this time, her body _knew._ As if it had been waiting anxiously, denied for so many years, and knew it was finally free. Sansa had been afraid, given her experiences with Ramsay, that she might not be fertile. That fear was very quickly assuaged. She had herself examined by two maesters and Sam to be sure, as it was so very early. But they were certain.

It’s still the most dangerous period, though. So she’s been careful. She didn’t dance too much at the banquet tonight. She’s restricted her daily inspections to just the keep and the inner courtyards. She’s eaten a great deal. She and Willam have been more relaxed in their lovemaking. She’s delegated more duties to her advisors.

The Maesters know. Bran knows. Brienne knows. Cecily knows. Willam knows. Arya knows. Sam and Gilly know.

Jon does not. Sansa isn’t sure how to tell him. In two years, neither of them have so much as mentioned their kiss to one another, or any of the feelings that came with it. They pretend that nothing’s changed. They act like siblings. But Sansa knows, deep down, that it’s only an act.

But she does love Willam. God, how she loves him. He’s what makes it all bearable. And he’s waited for her, keeping her warm and safe amidst the winter winds, Dragon Queens, and White Walkers.

Sansa strokes his face in adoration. His eyes seem to burst with affection. They crawl onto the bed proper and Willam lies back, lifting his hips to pull off his breeches.

Sansa’s been rather… distracted… by his breeches all day. Not only were they uncommonly tight, but she suspected he had nothing on underneath. This suspicion is now confirmed.

“Where are your smallclothes?!” She asks, laughing in delight as his cock springs free.

“In there, I suspect,” he smirks devilishly, gesturing to one of the chests that was moved into her chambers by the servants that very day. “Didn’t see the point in wearing any today.”

Before he can utter another remark, Sansa kisses Willam fiercely again, as if to devour him.

If she doesn’t, after all, they may end up simply talking all evening. They’ve done it before. But tonight they have to do otherwise.

He flips them over, reversing their positions. With her gown unlaced from neckline to the tops of her skirts, Willam gets to work kissing down her body. His lips are like wet butterfly wings with their lightness.

During moments like these with him, the world and all its burdens and struggles seem to vanish.

They are just people in love.

His lovemaking is careful, languid. He looks into her eyes throughout it. After they finish —- perspiring lightly and tucked beneath her coverlet — she asks him about it.

“Were you nervous about the babe, or—?” She understands the impulse. She herself asked the Maesters about the safety of lovemaking when with child.

“— No, I asked the Maesters if it was safe, they assured me it was.”

Sansa grins. Gods, it’s just so easy! They think so alike.

“— I wanted the image of my wife the first time I made love to her as her husband imprinted into my mind as much as possible. So I took my time and studied every little twitch, squirm, and moan.”

Sansa blinks. Why didn’t she consider that? She just rolled her head back and closed her eyes through most of it. She wraps her hands about his neck. “I love you so very, very much.”

He pulls one hand to his lips and presses them to her fingertips. Their eyes bore into one another. “As I love you.”

Sometimes, she feels like a monster. To this day, Willam doesn’t know about the kiss. At this point, she’s not even sure she should tell him. What is the point? Jon is in the Queensguard. But it weighs on her.

He’s so good to her. Too good to her. Better than she deserves.

Sometimes, she looks at him and wonders, “What are you doing here with me and all my pain, my failings, and all the danger around me?”

She’s too afraid to ask it aloud. Sometimes, she wants to tell him about Jon, perhaps to scare him off. This place grows more dangerous every day. With the enemy still around. She wants to get all of the people she loves far, far away from here, away from danger. But she’s too weak to do it. Sending Arya away was hard enough.

Sansa is selfish, she knows it, she is queen, she is Lady of Winterfell. This is her place. They shouldn’t have to be here with her and yet… here they are.

The comfort she takes in that is tempered by the guilt. She used to think Winterfell was her strength, but as she snuggles against her new husband’s chest, she knows these are just walls. Walls she was raped within repeatedly, no less. It’s her pack that is her strength.

Sansa tries to push her guilt and misgivings away. As if sensing her worries, Willam kisses her forehead and starts to hum. Sansa’s eyelids grow heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my Jonsa peeps: please don't freak out.
> 
> Also: I'm going to be at Ice and Fire Con and Con of Thrones, so if any of you will be there, let me know (I have a Sansa costume. OF COURSE)


End file.
